
Heart rate through the roof, lungs burning, pedal stroke erratic. As I round a bend in the road, I am hit by a wall of excited screams. Hundreds line the rise to the summit, a tunnel of smiling faces. Like a stage in the Tour, hands reach out to give me a push.
But this is not France. This is Rwanda. The cheering crowds are not the rabid Basque fans who fill Pyrenees in July, but Rwandan students finished with school for the day. Yells of komera! ("be strong!") replace venga! and allez!
Heart rate through the roof, lungs burning, pedal stroke erratic. As I round a bend in the road, I am hit by a wall of excited screams. Hundreds line the rise to the summit, a tunnel of smiling faces. Like a stage in the Tour, hands reach out to give me a push.
But this is not France. This is Rwanda. The cheering crowds are not the rabid Basque fans who fill Pyrenees in July, but Rwandan students finished with school for the day. Yells of komera! ("be strong!") replace venga! and allez!
Could this really be the country that barely a decade ago filled our television screens with pictures of machete wielding mobs and mutilated bodies? Where are the pickups full of gun toting militia? Isn't this supposed to be one of the most dangerous countries in Africa?