It's been a long standing tradition, ever since the depravity began over 30 years ago, that once a year I can select anything I want to eat for breakfast. ANYTHING. You can imagine the possibilities. So when I tell you what my longstanding choice inevitably is, I fear I will disappoint you. At this point I could change, but the change would mark the end a ritual that is as much a part of me as the laugh lines and new grey hairs.

The day of ultimate dining freedom is my birthday. You've heard the story before, but I'll tell it again, with a Rwandan twist. As a child, 364 days a year I had to live without refined sugar, chocolate, and all other delectable gifts that I saw around me at grocery stores and in homes of my friends.

But on my birthday, that glorious day when the potential for rotten teeth, hyperactivity and obesity were forgotten, I got to call the shots -- at least for breakfast. The menu that I always created consisted of white bread, sugar cereal (usually Honey Nut Cheerios) and donuts.

Monday was my birthday. My sugary breakfast tradition had been forgotten until my grumbling stomach propelled me to go searching for some breakfast. I found myself at a little shop up the hill from my home in Kimihurura. On the counter were plastic containers filled with bread, sambusas and a reminder of my longstanding tradition: donuts. Or I should say Amandazi.

It was golden brown and buttery. I bought one and took it home. I showed my finding to a housemate who warned that it might be tough and not as sweet as a donut should be. As a preventative measure I sliced the amandazi in half and dropped it in the toaster. When it was crisped, I coated the halves in sugar and cinnamon. It wasn't bad. And considering no one bought me cake, it was the next best thing.

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My disproportionately high number of blog postings about my bus rides must be an indication that I need to cut back on my commutes.

But until I do, I will continue to write my bus ride observations column and may even expand my study to include the behaviors of moto drivers since I ride motos even more frequently.

Here's the latest from my April 28th journey:

I typically think of the Rwandese as law abiding citizens. Laws are created and they are followed. But I suppose every society needs to find small ways to rebel.

I haven't read the law, but based on what I'm told and the behavior of today's bus driver, drivers must wear seat belts. I hadn't noticed that my driver was not buckled in until we approached a security check point. During the two hour drive there are frequent junctures where we encounter Rwanda's finest, in their blue berets and navy belted jumpsuits. As the van slowed to a stop, the driver reached across his chest to draw his seat belt across his body. When we were out of sight of the police he released the belt, never actually latching the buckle into place.

Now, I would imagine the law was created for the safety and health of the citizens. It's not a bad law. And clearly, the driver was aware of the law since he made a gesture to follow it when the law enforcement was present. Yet, rather than simply buckle in he staged a minor rebellion -- one with the potential to do more harm to himself than the law he broke.

On a related note, the law requires moto drivers to provide helmets to their passengers. And they do. However, recently I had a short distance to travel. I climbed on board and beckoned for the driver to pass me the helmet. He shook his head and clutched the helmet to him. Okay. Fine, I thought. I just have to get from my house to campus.

But as we approached campus, my moto driver spotted two police officers in the distance. Without hesitation he passed the helmet over his shoulder. I was furious and refused to put the helmet on. We only had a few more meters to traveled. I hoped he'd be punished for putting my safety at risk. We zoomed passed the police without arrest.

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I ride the Volcano bus between Butare and Kigali a lot. This two hour journey takes me past beautiful terraced hillsides, usually at sunset. It's a pretty ride. And I always welcome the opportunity to read my book without distraction while the lovely landscape passes by. However, the wrong seat on the bus can detract from this visual beauty and the overall bus riding experience. My legs are long and my luggage load excessive. I frequently have to stack my camera backpack on my lap with my computer and clothes bags wedged under my feet. By the end of a trip seated in the WRONG seat, I am crampy and cranky.

In a quest for prime bus real estate, I have consulted with fellow travelers to determine the top three seats to make my bus ride a pleasant one.

#1. Shotgun seat
A. Ample leg room
B. Windshield AND side window views.
C. With a seat to yourself, there is no danger that the person sitting next to you who is strickened with motion sickness will "share" her regurgitated lunch with you.
D. You have your very own escape route door, should the bus catch fire.

#2. The seat behind the driver, next to window
A. Moderate amount of leg room.
B. Luggage storage space under your seat.
C. Large window escape route should the bus catch fire.

#3. The seat at the back of the bus, behind the driver, next to the window.
A. Moderate amount of leg room
B. No one will climb over you during the frequent stops.
C. Large window escape route shold the bus catch fire.

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Whenever I go anywhere with my video camera I am asked to pay to take people's image, even if my camera isn't directed at them. Recently, I have started asking people to pay ME to film them. Most are confused at first. Then laugh me away. But on Thursday, I actually got a taker.

Rwandan dude at the market pays ME to take his image. from on Vimeo.

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My dark colored dots from on Vimeo.

Yesterday I was at the old Huye Market doing some reporting for a story. As my translator extraordinaire was off negotiating whether or not a cassava farmer would grant us an interview, I entertained myself with a young man, I first thought was a traveling liquor salesman. It turns out I was close. In fact he was selling "medicine." In his plastic tub he carried several bottles that once contained wine and waragi but were now filled with an elixir to alleviate stomach pain. He took one look at me and immediately diagnosed my problem.

He handed me three plastic packets filled with eggshell colored powder.

"For your dark colored dots," a woman next to me translated.

"To erase them?" I asked.

He nodded.

He recommended three packets at 5000Rwf ($8) each. He had only seen the freckles on my arms at that point.

Once I tried to count all my freckles. I lost my place somewhere between 738 and 839. Rather than start over, I gave up. Needless to say I have many and it would cost more than 15,000Rwf to erase them.

I offered my Pharmaceutical Salesman friend an alternative which you can see here:

An introduction to sunscreen from on Vimeo.

I prefer to protect my "dark colored dots" from the sun with sunscreen.

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I was bitten. It happened sometime over the weekend. I never caught a glimpse of the culprit, but his legend remains as a slow growing red rash on my upper right thigh. It has burned since the start, but what was once a small isolated area, now occupies nearly the entire section of leg above my knee.

Last week I had an abnormally high number of mosquito bites. So naturally I assumed this was just another addition to my growing collection. But as the pinching burn spread, I decided to seek consultation from the local experts around me: my students. I described the pain and within seconds my three advisors announced, almost in unison: nyamuca. Nya-what? I delivered the news to another friend who translated: Nairobi Fly. Despite the translation from kinyarwanda to English, this was still a creature I had never encountered.

This is what a nyamuca looks like:

Everyone seemed confident that there was no need to fear for my life. And as you can see from this post, I’m still here to tell the tale. But there were no assurances I wouldn’t lose a leg. This unofficial diagnosis was already three days in. The burn was intensifying and the area around the bite was beginning to turn blue. Perhaps a lack of oxygen to the leg? Surely I would need to be amputated.

The students urged me to seek medical consultation. My housemate directed me to a private medical clinic close to town. During my lunch break, I hustled there as fast as I could manage on my gimpy swollen leg.

I arrived at noon but was told the doctor would be eating his lunch until 2:30 pm.

I had class at 2 pm. Every day I receive a myriad of “medical” excuses from my students to explain why they were late or missed class. Some are in fact very real. I’ve received a half dozen doctors notes stating that the student is in fact suffering from Malaria. But another was “sick” and several hours later that night I saw him performing before an audience of hundreds. A non-fatal medical situation was not going to prevent me from teaching, even if the fate of a leg was hanging in the balance. So I postponed the appointment and the opportunity to treat the burn to the following morning. This morning.

These extra hours gave me an entire night to Google images of victims of the nyamuca. Ah. The blistering I await. Like this:

This morning I hobbled through my neighborhood of Taba to the clinic. Dr. Theoneste told me to lower my pants. He looked. Yes. Nyamuca. He made a joke about the shortage of Nyamuca in Boston where he spent some time studying public health. Then he prescribed three medications: Diprosept cream to ease the pain. A high dosage of Ibuprofen and fusidate de sodium. $50 later, the pain has begun to ease. The redness remains but it’s better than the blisters to come.

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Kigutu Dinner from on Vimeo.

These are hens with no name. Unlike, Asman Ashura, the Muslim goat who not only has a name but also harem of lady goats. Asman will soon to be featured here.

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A typical rainy season afternoon in Butare from on Vimeo.

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This weekend I was invited to watch one of my students perform at the Alpha Palace Hotel in Kigali. She's a national singing sensation, so of course I accepted the invitation. She put on a soulful show, which I videotaped. Afterward, I talked to the groupies and admired the latest in Kigali fashion. Here, I stand next to a student sporting a hoody that transforms the wearer into skeletor.

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Rat Trap from on Vimeo.

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Yesterday, I was waiting for the bus to take me from Butare to Kigali. It started to rain so everyone huddled under the gas station covering. As I spoke with a student from the National University, a man approached carrying a cluster of egg-shaped wire baskets. But what really caught my eye were the two small rats contained within a basket.

"Sont-ils pour le diner?" I asked.
He laughed, no.
"Votre animal de compagnie?"
No again.

Turns out the baskets are actually rat traps. He was a traveling salesman with a demo. The rats inside demonstrate that they can crawl in but they can't escape. How you deal with the trapped rat is another matter. I bought one for 500 Rwf (under $1). I plan to use the trap as a lantern. I wish I had bought more.

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