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Not too many weeks ago, I climbed (hiked) Ben Nevis, the highest point in the UK (though lower in elevation than my home in Kigali). Today it has been cold and rainy, which somehow seems an appropriate time to write about the climb. This was a big climb for me – my longest ever. You go from sea level to 4,400 feet and back in about 9.5 miles. For all the other outdoor things I love, you might wonder why this is the longest hike (in terms of elevation change) I have done. I have bad knees, and honestly did not know how they would do, but figured it was worth finding out.

I tried to put everything in my favor including buying walk poles. In America, it seems walking pools are for the old or the trendy. In Scotland, however, they were a normal part of hiking attire and at least one third of the hikers (of all shapes and sizes and ages) had them. Given that Scotland is a land of walking, hiking, and climbing, I decided to learn from their wisdom. I am thankful that I did learn and plan on taking the sideways glances of Americans with a smile on my face every time I use them in the future. They are grand.

Back to the mountain. Actually, first to the glen. Our first day at Fort William, we decided to hike Glen Nevis, the valley below Ben Nevis. I didn’t think about the kilometers to miles conversion much, and we ended up doing a 12 mile walk. I can fairly confidently say that Matt & Lauren (brother & sister-in-law) would have been thrilled to turn back early and cut the walk in half (or less). But, they humored me as I urged them on, and we stopped for many pictures along the way.

The next day was Ben Nevis. We were prepared with food, drinks, all appropriate layers and a compass in case the top became totally clouded in. The nice guy at the shop described it as a “long, hard plod.” But it was already sunny (miracle) and the weather forecast was good (another miracle). And so we began the plod up the mountain. At this point, I was reminded that my legs are used to walking flat ground for miles at end, but going up is not their favorite. Matt, who bikes all the hills of Edinburgh, smiled and urged me on. Ever the brother, he loved the role reversal.

Matt and I did make it to the top where we the clouds again cleared and granted us some amazing views. I need to mention here that Lauren, though not feeling great, made it half way up the mountain. This, from a woman who bought her first pair of hiking shoes less than two years ago. Check out her comments about the mountain here. And that is how I climbed a mountain, saw some grand views, and fell in love with walking poles.

I just got back from another quick trip to the Sorwathe Tea Factory, which I promise to tell you about soon. For now, a picture from their gorgeous gardens.

Sometimes watching four episodes of The West Wing (tea cup in hand) is what it takes to free the mind and want to communicate with the world. This is just one of the many indicators that I am indeed an introvert. The much more fun thing is why an afternoon like that was needed – all the time spent with family and friends (whom I really love) in the past weeks at absolutely beautiful locations. And since Easter was just last week, I want to tell you about the Easter travels to Lake Kivu.

I have often said that nothing is simple in Africa, and this past week is a reminder of how true a statement that is. At last minute my parents ended up in Rwanda for Easter (just another story for my crazy family). This means that they were also here for Genocide Memorial Week. Part of their time was spent in Gisenyi, a town on Lake Kivu next to the DRC border. Here are some tidbits of what we did and what we learned.

Gisenyi, Lake Kivu & Paradis Malahide

I remember reading about Lake Kivu in some of my Environmental text books because it has methane and carbon dioxide gas at its bottom. It is a mountain lake that sits at around 4,800 feet and is 1,500 feet deep in parts and, in theory, could flip and kill those around the lake. There are only two other lakes with gases trapped at depth – both in Cameroon. Maybe this makes you bored or scared – it made me smile.

For my first trip to Lake Kivu, I went to Gisenyi. Really, I went to a hotel just outside of Gisenyi called Paradis Malahide because our little group never found a reason to leave the hotel. Paradis Malahide seems like it is plopped in amongst a wandering village, with a bit of beach and hillside carved out just for guests. It was a perfect escape – for us, an Easter escape. If you go, bring a swim suit, books, games, an appetite for some yummy fish in the evenings, and be prepared to enjoy the bonfire each evening at the restaurant. What I learned: Paradis Malahide is a perfect place for a quiet weekend, a place to be rejuvenated with relaxation. But, if you want to be active, probably not perfect. I shall definitely be back in the months to come!

The beach at Paradis Malahide, our rooms in the back.

Carcassonne, a favorite board game.

Bonfire fun – don’t forget to import your marshmellows.

Genocide Memorial Week

Each year Rwanda takes a week to remember the genocide of 1994. The government chooses a theme for the week, everything shuts down the first and last day of the week, and most afternoons as well. To some degree, this continues for 100 days – the length of the genocide. This is my second time to be here for this week, and the country takes on a somber, even depressed, mood. As an outsider, there is little to do but respect that which is everywhere you turn and pray that those mourning would find comfort and healing. If you visit during this time (or any other time) this what I have learned: If you want to know stories, read books because retelling is reliving, and who are we to ask such a thing? If you have advive for someone who lived through the genocide or has family here, keep it to yourself – this place and history is more complex and greater than we can understand. If you want to learn – listen, observe, and respect. Like all rules, sometimes these should be broken. But, they are a good starting point.

And now it is time for this introvert to turn from The West Wing to the book that is filling spare moments with smiles: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

My trip to Scotlan was absolutely wonderful, and now that I am home I do not want to go to bed because tomorrow’s morning alarm will mean it is truly over. One of the many gifts I was given on this trip was to witness the start of spring. Fresh buds, spring flowers, and new leaves are all filled with magic to me – signs of life after a long winter. Although I love my perpetual summer on the equator, I miss the magic of spring and fall, and this was so sweet. This photo was taken on Ben Nevis in the highlands of Scotland.

I took this photo a couple of weeks ago when I was at the Sorwathe Tea Factory for the night. It was absolutely stunning and wonderfully peaceful. Before long, I will share a bit more about the bed & breakfast, the view, and the good work that Sorwathe does. For now, I am sitting in the airport getting ready to head to another country filled with beautiful hills – Scotland – so it shall have to wait. Get ready for pictures of old buildings, good food, and beautiful countryside to be taken with my camera that is waiting there for me. Sigh. Vacation will be wonderful. So thankful my brother and sister-in-law moved to Edinburgh!

One of the things about moving across an ocean is that you have to find new and imaginative ways to alter tried and true recipes. Things that were the norm because they were cheap, easy and accessible are expensive, time consuming and hard to find. It means finding a new norm.

In America I regularly substitute some of the oil in baking recipes with apple sauce (plain, un-doctored apple sauce). It cuts some of the fat, and often adds good moisture with but a small change in flavor. I often had an open jar in the back of the fridge just waiting to be used. Here in Rwanda when I can find apple sauce, it is expensive. True, apples (though not particularly cheap), could be made into apple sauce. But I work a job that is more than full time, so that is, at best, a laughable option.

So, I turned to the readily available tropical fruits: bananas, mangoes, tree tomatoes, pineapple, passion fruit….papaya. Nearly everyone I know who likes papaya grew up eating it or intentionally developed a taste for it. As a baby in Kenya, it was my first food… need I say more? But here is the deal: it is filled with moisture, easily mashes (just scrape the insides and you have instant puree), and readily available. So I gave it a shot when baking my famous and much loved carrot cake. It is as divine as ever. So now I have little bags of 1/2 cup and 3/4 cup amounts of mashed papaya in my freezer ready to go. A bit of creativity and now I have a new oil substitute that is cheap, easy and accessible. In case you presently live in a similar tropical location, here is the now-adapted, but proven, carrot cake recipe. I am still perfecting the cream cheese icing without cream cheese; I will keep you posted.

Carrot Cake for Tropical Locations

• 2 cups flour
• 2 cups sugar (if not cooking for Americans, reduce slightly)
• 2 tsp baking soda
• 3/4 tsp salt
• 2 tsp cinnamon
• 1/2 tsp cloves
• 1/2 tsp nutmeg
• 2 tsp vanilla
• 3 eggs
• 1 cup crushed pineapple (if using fresh: finely chopped with some juice)
• 3/4 cup mashed or pured papaya
• 3/4 cup vegetable or corn oil
• 1 cup coconut (can do without, just add a few tablespoons flour; desiccated coconut is available in Nairobi)
• 2 cups grated carrots

Mix all ingredients except the coconut and carrots. Fold in coconut and carrots, one at a time. Bake in a 9×13 pan (do not grease or flour the pan) at 350 F for 45 minutes or until test stick comes out clean. I have recently been using a 9 inch springform pan, which takes 50-55 minutes. Best served with cream cheese frosting.

In the midst of turning towards fun, I want to share some of the places that have become old friends as well as the new discoveries made here and on my travels. And so today, I introduce you to my blog category called ‘places’ and Osteria, an Italian restaurant in Nairobi.

A friend and I arrived at Osteria for Saturday lunch, and it could not have been more perfect. The tables outside made it seem we were in a courtyard, possibly a thousand miles away. Bruschetta, mozzarella, basil, mushrooms, pasta, and wine. I am convinced that the lack of good cheese in Kigali has not completely lowered my standards and that it was indeed good food. I would go on and on about each dish we had if I did not think you would immediately begin to think of ways to ship me cheese. But, just one comment: capris salad – fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, basil leaves, balsamic vinegar. Perfection. Add to that smiling staff that were there when needed, but melted away and were happy to let us talk for hours, stretching the meal long so that our tummies could find space for a few bites more.

Yes, Osteria has officially been added to my list of places to frequent when I am in Nairobi. In case you need a bit more convincing, they have an ice cream shop as well that looked like it was filled with homemade gelato. The family sitting outside looked like they were in a small piece of heaven. Unfortunately we were too stuffed for even a small scoop, so should you stop by, please let me know how it is.

Touchdown to take-off was 45 hours. Most of those were spent in meetings or sleeping; but one evening did include a walk and dinner in town. It was a most beautiful weekend escape filled with pieces of what is not here. Hearty breads and tender meats, fluffy beds and comfy chairs, aged cheese and old beers, modern construction and stately buildings. And, just to make my soul smile, there were snowflakes outside the meeting room for a mere one hour. A few (iPhone) photos from the walk in town. Thank you Fetzer Institute for excellent meetings and a weekend escape.

I do not think I have been to the Frankfurt airport since I was in college and was returning home to Amman, Jordan for Christmas or summer holidays. Where the Amsterdam airport has long been a familiar friend, the Frankfort airport remains a mystery. If you stumble upon the correct place, you are suddenly graced with wonderful German breads and meats and beers. Having not yet unlocked the mystery of this airport, that stumbling often takes longer than should be necessary.

But, to the point, The Cornetto. When I got to college I remember someone telling me that the American “Drumstick” was similar, the ‘same thing.’ Oh, that can only be said if you have not had a Cornetto. Here is the magic of The Cornetto: creamy ice cream, rich chocolate, a few perfect nuts, and a crunchy cone that has its own perfect flavor. It is not a thin dip of chocolate on top with inexpensive peanuts sparsely placed. It is just the right amount of chocolate in thick drizzles, nuts determined by the specific type of Corneetto purchased, and the ice cream not watered down. But the grande finale is this: you know you have a real one when the cone itself is crunchy as if the cone is ignorant of the fact it was all put together in a factor and should be getting soggy in your hands as the ice cream melts. They manage this by the finest layer of chocolate on the inside of the cone.

Perfection dear friends, perfection. And an instant transport back straight to my childhood where The Cornetto was a happy treat. Maybe it is even more of a treat today when found in the Frankfurt airport – along with its flavor and texture comes the flood of memories. Corner stores and family vacations. Most of my family likes the Magnum more (more ice cream and chocolate, but no crunchy cone), but to each their own. We ate them together, that’s what matters.

Sometime ago I wrote a short article for an online magazine about maintaining community in the midst of a life that has me constantly on the road. I talked about it not being an easy journey, but that it was indeed possible if one was intentional. Lately I have been reminded of those words as I work to build community, to build a home, here in Rwanda.  Community is something that is found and built; it is not happenstance. In takes time – it is an investment. It takes perseverance to find, to build, to maintain. Sometimes there is a precious gift of stepping into a community that is waiting for you and welcomes with open arms. Even then, it takes time to make it your own.

I do not know any perfect formula for this process – but there are a few things I will do until I fall into bed exhausted. Coffee dates, weekly meetings (Bible studies, pub quizzes, long walks – whatever it is that works for you), and gathering over food in my home. It does not take a grand excuse for people to gather – sometimes a small one is even better – it is just an excuse to share in a piece of life together. And from there shared history begins.

I smile because on Sunday some of us gathered for a picnic in my backyard. It is dry season and the grass is dry and the little ants wanted our food. But it was sunny and warm and conversations drowned the music. In that moment, there was a piece of shared history. Maybe when the rains start, we will gather inside over soup and think back to that time we lounged under the shade tree when the sun made the afternoon hot.

As I write this, a Jars of Clay song came on, and smiled at how perfect it is for today’s thoughts, “In the shelter of each other, we will live.” May we all be so blessed that this would be true for us.

My kitchen light has been out for about a week now. In this kitchen of mine, there is exactly one lightbulb – a florescent tube. In so many ways, this is not what I would have chosen, but it is what I have. It worked great until the day I thought the light bulb burned out.

I had no spare bulbs (is it actually called a light tube?) in my pantry. It was a busy week, and I did not feel like carving out the time to run to town to get a bulb because nearly everything takes longer than anticipated. At night I used a candle or headlamp as needed in the kitchen. Somehow this seemed neither surprising or particularly frustrating.

On Saturday, I got a bulb plus a few extras for future use. Then on Sunday my housemate and I tried to change the bulb which included standing on a not particularly stable table and hoping the light switch was off because the wiring is a far from perfect 220V.

New lightbulb in and it still doesn’t work. Part of the end of the fixture looks sketchy and rusty. Did we not do it correctly (how does one mess this up)? Or maybe the fixture is simply busted. Now it is Tuesday night and those candles and headlamps continue to work well. It is just another day. I guess it is time to break down and call our handyman. I’m sure I will do that sometime later this week…

Tonight I find myself curled up in bed exhausted from the happenings of the week, watching some old TV shows on my laptop, drinking fizzing water and enjoying some Swiss chocolate. Which makes me want to laugh out loud: almost my entire life, I have been indifferent to chocolate. It was not something that tasted horrible, but why eat something that the taste buds simply do not care about when there is so much goodness in the world?

Why you ask? Well, because it is assumed that everyone likes chocolate, and so I have spent my life eating bits and pieces along the way. Over the years, boyfriends have been baffled and roommates have been thankful as they benefited from gifts passed along. But here I am, eating chocolate in bed.

A friend here believes that all meals worth being called a meal should end with a bite of chocolate. She loves it so, and I cannot bear the thought of not sharing in her pleasure. Thus, I eat a fair amount of chocolate. A few months later and I find that a chocolate chip cookie hits the spot and a small piece of Swiss chocolate hidden in the pantry is simply perfect. I would like to blame it on the exhaustion, but I fear I am developing a taste for the stuff. Secretly, part of me is glad.

Last year I made the mistake of watching Machine Gun Preacher. I had the privilege of seeing the movie before it came out, invited to the
showing in Nashville because of the work of Blood:Water Mission. I was honored by the invite and went to the showing because I knew I would
undoubtedly get questions about it from friends or future acquaintances. I was foolish.

Right now I am in Kitgum, Northern Uganda. I was just in Lira, Uganda. If you check out a map, you will see that these places are not far
from South Sudan, the focus of the movie. These places were also inhabited by the horrors of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA). Today I
have seen a building that was home to the night commuters (now a medical ward), talked about care and rehabilitation needed for the
girls and boys who were abducted and made wives and soldiers, respectively, and discussed the old people who cannot return to the
village as there is a missing generation and they are too old to build their own homes. For many in this area, they left home in 1989 and did
not return until 2008. The LRA has gone, but the recovery is ongoing, the pains still fresh.

I was foolish to watch Machine Gun Preacher because these are the stories of where I work, the horrors known to my friends. These are
not the stories of places far away, landscapes and people groups unknown. These are stories that have slowly knit their way into my
being. I never ask for the story of a friend, but I listen and remember when stories are shared; I cannot ask someone to relive their
nightmare, but will share the burden if it is offered. That is all the reality my body can handle. For someone else, such a movie is a wake
up call, an education of what has happened across the world from their clean reality. For me, I want my movies to be fantastical – I want to
know from the start that the good guys will win and that the lovers will live happily ever after. I do not want the possibility that the
horrors of the screen will mix with those of my friends in the back of my mind. The good guys – I want them to always win.