Sunday 5th

After filling up at the yummy hotel breakfast buffet for the last time, we checked out of the hotel and went on our way. On the way to the port we stopped at the market to buy some dates for our driver in Dar, and of course, Job insisted that we try some. They weren't like the dates you get in England; dried and hard. These were big, gloopy and soft. Not unlike giant bogies. Neither of us liked them very much, and spend the next five minutes trying to dispose of them discreetly without Job or the street vendor noticing.

Job helped us buy our tickets at the Port. There was no queue, just an ever-growing mob of sweaty bodies pushing their way to the desk, waving their shillings in the air (like they just don't care). I honestly wouldn't have been able to do it. Yes, I’ve been in Africa for three months, but the Rwandese have a concept of personal space and of order, so living there has not helped me de-British and start loving being up close and personal with every person you meet. After saying goodbye to Job, we proceeded to wait for the boat for the next forty minutes in the 32 degree heat. It was there, we could see it, they just wouldn't let us get on it. There was no shade, we didn't have much water left, and we were in the middle of a crowd of other impatient passengers, all pushing and jostling their way to the front. I felt sick and faint with the heat, and wished that for once something here would leave on time. The air conditioned first class cabin seemed like heaven in comparison, and there I sat for the next hour and a half in my comfy chair. At last the AC became a bit too much, and I ventured out on the deck to get some sunshine to warm me up. I lay on the floor precariously close to the edge of the boat, pashmina covering my face to stop if from burning, aware that at any second I could be swimming the rest of the way back to the mainland.

We arrived in Dar at about midday, met our driver and found a cheap hotel for the night. After checking in, we set off on the last trip of our holiday to a place called Bagamoya, the town at the heart of the historic slave trade. Bagamoya is a hot coastal town with white sandy beaches and stunning blue ocean.





It was hard to imagine that such suffering and terror could take place in such an idyllic setting, and just a few years ago too. I have to admit that being one of only a handful bazungu there, I felt a bit uncomfortable, but my guilt was eased slightly by the fact that the East African slaves were headed for Arabia and not for England.







I followed in the footsteps of David Livingston, one of the few Brits vocal about the atrocities of slavery, although I have to admit that I don't really know much about him. By the time we arrived it was half past two, three, so we were all very hungry. We sat down at a restaurant by the beach, and waited two hours for our lunch. By this point in the trip we were both feeling quite tired and irritable, so we sat, mainly in silence, helpless as the poor service slowly chipped away at morale and ruined the last day of our holiday. By the time we had eaten it was half past five, and by the time we got to the museum it was closed. We were both disappointed and wandered round the grounds trying to understand what happened here. We met a guy who worked there and persuaded him to show us round a bit. He took us to the graveyard where all the missionaries were buried. They came in protest of the slave trade and to evangelise East Africa. They were young, my age when they died, mainly of malaria and flu.







We drove back to the hotel in the dark, through bustling street markets and arid desert, and watched Marie Tulie late into the night. It's that Mexican soap opera I told you about, Guidado con el Angel, and it is shown on a Tanzanian channel that we pick up in Kigali. It's quite intense at the moment. Marie Tulie was shot three times and is now blind as a result. While walking about alone late at night with her baby in her arms, she fell down a subway, dropped the baby and fell unconscious. Juan Miguel, the father of her child, who doesn't know she is blind, was furious and yelled at her for two whole episodes. But Juan Miguel, had your ex-wife Vivianne not tried to kill you and faked her death, had you not met and fell in love with Marie Tuile in the mean time, married her and got her preganant, had Vivianne not reappeared forcing you to annul your marriage to Marie Tuile and leave her, had Vivianne not been killed by your jealous governess Blanca Sylva who suffers with multiple personality syndrone and also goes by the name of Yvette the evil French woman, had your not defended Blanca in court despite the fact that you're a doctor not a lawyer, had you not decided to try and cure Blanca by marrying her and providing her with a stable home environment, had you not treated Marie Tuile so badly that she thought you hated her, pushing her into a loveless engagement with blonde haired man whose name I forget, the owner of the hacienda where she took refuge and had her baby, had you gone back to Marie Tuile after Blanca left you for blond haired man whose name I forget, who she had previously dated and tormented as Yvette the evil French woman ,well Juan Miguel, Marie Tuile would be your wife, and wouldn't have needed to take the job at the theatre where she was shot three times and made blind by the gold-digging woman who pretended to be her (Marie Tuile) to her wealthy parents Judge and Mrs Velardez who abandoned her at birth forcing to grow up on the streets, and she wouldn't have dropped your baby down a subway, where he was promptly snatched away by a crazy bag lady. So really Juan Miguel, it's all your fault. You're such a jerk.

It sounds a bit far fetched but they act it so well that it's totally believable and I’m hooked.

Saturday 4th AM

We went back to the hotel for forty minutes for a quick lunch and to charge our cameras. I sat by the beach and had a banana smoothie and beef sandwich with a lot of Heinz ketchup. Heinz is a bit of a treat here. It's really expensive so I’d never buy it for the house, but, if I’m at a restaurant and I feel they're overcharging me, I try to get my money's worth from the ketchup.

After lunch, Job picked us up and took us to a spice farm. Zanzibar is famous for its spices, and almost the whole island has this beautiful spice aroma (other parts smell like sewage, especially at the markets). We saw about fifteen different types of spices growing, including curry leaf, lemongrass and vanilla. It was particularly special for me to see a chocolate tree. The flesh around the beans is actually really sweet, although I'd rather take a bar of Dairy Milk any day.

Halfway through the tour, this old man climbed up a palm tree, singing and swinging around. He produced three coconuts for us, and we drank the milk and ate the flesh under the shade of the tree. At the end of the tour, these two little boys jumped out the bushes and gave us flower hats, palm baskets and jewellery. Both these were good money making schemes. They don't charge you but you must please feel free to tip.

We then headed back to the entrance of the farm for a tropical fruit tasting session, which was scrummy. Literally from the tree to the mouth. You can't beat that.

And there was a little stall packed with different spices for sale, and of course we obliged. All in all, it was a very pleasant experience.

Next stop was the market so that Dora could pick up some cheap kangas. They're good quality fabric, but it's less expensive here than in Rwanda. And I took the opportunity to pick up some lush pashminas, four for £9, bargain.

Now as you know, I’m reading a book called The Zanzibar Chest. Call me sentimental but I had to buy one, and fortunately Job knew someone that makes them. His workshop was situated in the old Arab fort, so that evening we went to pay him a visit. I bought a beautiful little chest for just 45.000 shillings, about 30 quid, haggled down from 75.000, thank you Job. And then we went back to the dress shop for a last minute splurge. I bought a really nice teal dress with a mustard flower pattern. Luscious.

To say thanks for all his help, we took Job out for dinner to a really nice restaurant. I had beef medallions with mashed potatoes and spinach in a red wine sauce. Amazing. And for the first time in my life, I ate the spinach. All of it. But don't tell my mum, or she might get ideas.

Saturday 4th AM

We met Job at eight this morning, had a quick breakfast by the sea and piled into a really plush mini bus. The four seats in the back were just like arm chairs; it was the most comfortable car I’ve ever been in. And so we began our 90 minute journey to Kimikazi to swim with dolphins. After my experience yesterday I wasn't overly keen on going, but it was important to Dora, so after exhausting my list of possible reasons why we shouldn't go and being met with rebuttal after rebuttal, we were on our way.

We arrived at the beach and got changed into our swimming gear. After yesterday's fiasco I was quick to refuse scuba equipment, thinking I'd be much happier without it. It was another scorching day in Zanzibar Tanzania (just in case you had forgotten that a) it's really hot here or b) I’m in an exotic and exciting country while you're all stuck in sub zero England) (Yes Cat, I know, you have access to a hot shower everyday, but I still think I’m winning), so I whipped out the factor 50, being particularly generous with the pink bits (nose, cheeks, forehead, chin, shoulders, back, knees, feet).

I can't get over how beautifully clear the water is here; as we launched ourselves(?) into the Indian Ocean, you could see every ripple on the seabed, every piece of knarled driftwood floating by, every jellyfish wanting to sting you. It was the stuff of dreams. The sea was noticeably rough that morning, and you really felt it in our little boat. Eventually we sighted the dolphins, their presence indicated by an armada of other tourist boats. Now I must confess that I’m not that up to date with nautical terminology, so I’m not entirely sure how many boats you have to have before it's considered an armada. But there were at least four or five other boats, each with a platoon of tourists swarming at their bowels.

Basically how it works is the dolphins swim around uncooperatively and the boats try and cut them off, at which point all the tourists jump in and swim as close as possible. Within about thirty seconds those wily dolphins have changed their course and headed off in another direction, to the dismay of the tourists who jump back in their boats to start the whole process again. The point is, you have to be quick to jump in, a strong swimmer and able to see where the dolphins are. As can only be expected, I was none of those things.

Take one: I slowly eased myself into the raging waters, being careful not to get my hair wet or get salt water in my eyes. But unsuprisingly, light and nimble as I may be, upon entry into the water my head plunged a good few inches under it. By the time I had floated to the surface and dried my eyes, the dolphins were long gone. Or were they? I honestly couldn't tell you because I’m so short sighted that I wouldn't have seen the dolphins unless they had swum up to me and introduced themselves with a friendly handshake. The guys in the boat were frantically pointing trying to direct me but it was useless. Swim while I may, I was being dragged away deeper into the wilds of the Indian Ocean by the ferocious current. I looked around and I was the only swimmer to be seen. I say swimmer but half drowned, wish-I-had-spent-more-time- (any time) at-the-gym, landlubber would probably be a better description.

OK, I think to myself. It's not that bad. I'll just get back in the boat. Well, it's easier said than done. Our boat didn't have a ladder, or a hull for that matter. Or anything to put your feet on. Just half a meter of wet, slippery boat which towered well above my head. The next tens minutes were interesting to say the least. At the time, Dora offered to film it but in attempt to preserve my dignity at least in Europe, I turned her down. I clambered, climbed and slipped my little heart out, until at last Job and the captain were able to half drag me into the boat. At this point I’m head and boobs in, backside in the air, legs flailing. It must have been quite a sight. I wiggle and worm myself along, over the the makeshift bench and fall onto the floor of the boat. We decide that I need my glasses.

Take two:
We find the dolphins again and this time I get in a bit quicker. But by the time I had floated to the surface, dried my eyes and carefully donned my Ted Baker prescription sunglasses, the dolphins were long gone. But at least this time I could see that they were gone. I tried to swim over to them, but the current was just too strong. The other boats head straight for me in their chase of the dolphins. I swim frantically to get out their way, and struggle to stay afloat in their wake. At this stage, I’m feeling a bit discouraged and I’m keen to call it a day. 'Come on, we'll give it one more try', they urge. 'If I get in the boat again, there's no way I’m going back in the water', I threaten.

This time, we tried a a different tact. I attempted to climb up the engine/propeller to be helped into the boat by Job and the captain. On the fourth attempt, after almost capsizing the boat on several occasions, we succeeded and I was back in the boat. They decide that in order to have any hope of catching up with the dolphins, I would need the scuba gear. For reasons unknown to me, my resolve wavered and I agreed.

Take three:
I’m back in the water wearing a scuba mask and size 7 flippers we borrowed from a passing boat. I’m a size 5. 'Put your head under the water', they yell, 'and look for the dolphins'.

Well, can I just say that the Indian Ocean is really big, and we were tracking a herd of about only twenty dolphins, so the odds were never in my favour. Also, it's flipping deep and you can see right to the bottom. And there are all sorts of things swimming around down there. I didn't see any of them, but that just means they were sneaking up behind me.

I put my head down, terrified, and told myself to breathe. Just breathe. I have to explain that breathing with your head underwater goes against all your natural instincts. With every breath I took, it felt like I was drowning. And on top of that you have to swim. Swimming, breathing and attempting to keep my composure all at the same time proved to be too much for me. Sure, the dolphins were down there, but all I could think about was being dragged off to a watery grave. When my flipper came off it was the last straw. I panicked, spun upside down, inhaled loads of water and started to wail. 'I wanna get out the water!' I yelled at the top of my half drowned lungs. I grabbed my flippers and threw them in the direction off the boat. Next came off my mask, which I also threw. Spluttering and flailing, the boat came to my rescue. Unfortunately it came at the same time as a massive swell, and I was forced by the current under the boat. This made me very unhappy.

By this point I’m so distressed that I can't even climb up the engine. Every time I fall, I’m dragged back under the boat by the choppy seas (I’m covered in bruises, head to toe). Somehow I get back into the boat, and Job looks at us and says, 'You didn't enjoy that did you?' But I’m British, so out of politeness I lie through my teeth and tell him it was a great experience. I’m not sure he believed me. The journey back to shore was quiet. Upon reflection, I wasn't that disappointed that I didn't get close to the them. I’ve never liked dolphins anyway. I’ve always thought they were smug and arrogant. Irritating like.

Safely back on dry land I came to this conclusion. God, if ever I’m thrown into the sea, please don't send a big fish; just let me drown quickly.

Friday 3rd

It is good to have a lie in. We have been meeting at 5 am every weekday morning to pray together, which is wonderful, but gruelling. While we both woke up automatically at five, we laid in bed dozing until eight. Hotel Tembo serves a mean breakfast. Fresh fruits, crepes with real nutella, pastries, breads, yoghurt, omelettes, fried potatoes, even pizza. What more could you ask for? We sat by the beach and feasted in the sunshine. For the next hour or so we sat on sun loungers reading our books, taking gentle strolls along the beach and talking to the locals. We decided to hire a boat for the rest of the day to take up to a small islet for just $20 a piece, which I thought was very reasonable. It was a traditional Zanzibar sailing dhow, albeit with an engine, just in case the winds weren't favourable. We spent a while drifting across the Indian Ocean with the sail up when the captain asked us if, for the sake of arriving that same day, we wouldn't rather use the engine. We took his advice and forty minutes later we pulled up on shore.





Changuu Island, or Prison Island as it is affectionately known, is home not only to an old prison and cholera quarantine facility but also a colony of giant tortoises. We arrived at feeding time. I like to think that one day Aubrey will get this big.




In this photo I’m standing where the old prison toilets were. Talk about poo with a view!





Then down to the beach. When we first arrived, there were a few bazungu there, but within half an hour they had left, so we had the beach to ourselves. Unless you have been somewhere like this, you cannot understand just how stunning it is. The sand is as white and soft as flour, and the ocean is the clearest blue you've ever seen.




It was really hot, and I burnt through multiple layers of factor 50 plus sun cream. It might as well have been milk. It was Dora's first time in the ocean, and she couldn't believe how salty it was. But it wasn't as bad as all that.

On the way home we stopped the boat and went snorkelling at a local reef. It was my first time and I found it rather distressing. I’m not a great fan of the water due to a very rational fear of giant squid that stems back to an ill-advised childhood visit to a fake submarine wreck that included someone being dragged off and eaten by a very large, purple squid with beady yellow eyes. To try make things better, we wedged my glasses into the goggles so I would at least be able to see what was swimming beneath me. Anyway, my first snorkel experience ended within a few minutes with a massive swell going over my head and filling up my air tube. At the same time my googles came loose and also filled with water. But I couldn't take them off for fear of losing yet another pair of glasses to the ocean. Blinded by salt and half drowned, with my massive flippers impeding my escape, I didn't know if I was swimming up or down. Eventually I came to the surface, handed over my snorkel gear and swam around for a bit, head defiantly above the surface. On the way home I said to Dora, “I'll never do that again”, comforted by the sight of dry land.

That evening we went out with Job to a local food market for dinner. The fishermen bring their catch everyday, barbecue it up and sell it at high prices to tourists.

Everyone was drinking fresh sugar cane juice, which was very yummy in small quantities. They put they sugar cane through an old fashioned mangle, and mix it with ice and lemon juice. I guess it's a bit like lemonade, except with the lemon to sugar ration in reverse.




When we got back to the hotel, I sat by the beach again to read my book, and enjoyed a scoop of hazelnut ice cream. Another day over.

Thursday 2nd

I had beans on toast for breakfast. Well, beans on sweaty bread. But it was amazing. You just can't beat beans on toast. We waited for our driver for a good hour in reception after we had checked out. The traffic in Dar is awful. You can sit in traffic for hours only moving a few metres. In many ways Dar is just like London, but more about that later. When he arrived, we went to the bank so Dora could get money out. She has been so busy these past few days with exams and audits, so it was hard for her to get ready in time. Next to us in the queue was a Masai Mara warrior, as you do.

Then it was straight to the port to buy our tickets for the boat to Zanzibar. We had just missed one, so we now had a two hour wait for the next boat. Dora and I left our luggage at the ticket office and went off to find some lunch. We had been advised by our driver not to eat meat, so I ordered chicken. I was impressed by the Tanzanian chickens; they are much more meaty than the ones in Rwanda. I don't order chicken in Rwanda any more because you just end up with a plate of bones.

The boat was late of course. We waited at the port for an hour, with several hundred other passengers. I felt like Michael Palin, an intrepid explorer in the heart of Africa, rediscovering forgotton places. I was the only muzungu in a throng of veil clad women, their babies strapped to their backs, suitcases on their heads and chickens in their hands. As a white woman with blonde hair and what felt in that situation to be a lot of exposed skin, I drew an uncomfortable amount of attention. People made no effort to hide their stares, or stop their children from pointing for that matter. There was no queuing system or respect for people's personal space. The sun scorched us from above. Eventually I had had enough and needed out. I pushed my way out of the crowd and sat on some steps a few meters away. Dora came to join me.

Eventually the gates were opened and the throng pushed its way forward. Somehow we had to get back into the crowd to get onto the boat, so, like everyone else, we pushed and shoved our way to the front, until fifteen minutes later we were on the boat with out suitcases. “I never want to do that again”, I told Dora, who nodded in agreement. The porter showed us into the air-conditioned first class cabin with big plushy seats, but we wanted to sit outside to get the full boat experience. There were at least three times as many passengers as there were seats, so I sat on the floor, which I later discovered was soaking wet. A guy called Job sat down next to Dora and we got chatting to him. He seemed really nice and offered to show us round the island. At this stage we had no plans, we didn't even have a hotel booked, so we took him up on his offer. I was a little reticent, I have to admit, but it turned out really well. He helped us carry our suitcases, got us a cheap cab and found us a great hotel. It was a really old building in the centre of town, with the added advantage of being right on the beach. Stone Town, the 'capital' of Zanzibar, is a tiny coastal port, so you can be in the town and on the beach at the same time, which is great. It was already quite late so we bode Job farewell and settled in at the hotel. The building was magnificent. It was finished with original furniture and fittings, so it was like stepping into the past. Our beds were a meter off the ground and really wobbly. As I lay there I tried to imagine what it would have been like for my fore bearers, those adventurous men and women who left everything they knew to conquer new lands. I honestly don't know how they coped without air-conditioning.

That evening I went and sat on the beach with my book, The Zanzibar Chest, half a bar of very melted Dairy Milk and a torch. It was perfection. Then Dora and I decided to explore the town a bit. We found a great dress shop with the beautifullest dresses you've ever seen. I bought a green and brown dress and a spectacular hat which only a British tourist could wear. Check it out! After shopping we went out for dinner. We shared a margarita pizza; I think the best I’ve ever had. Living in Africa has really made me appreciate things more.

Wednesday 1st Tanzania here I come!

I got up at half four this morning to finish packing. I gave up last night just after eleven, no where near finished. I don't know why but I felt the need to take everything I owned with me, just in case I'd need it. I took about 20 outfits for a six day trip, which is ridiculous and of course I didn't wear them wear them all, but such is life.

The taxi arrived at 5.30 am and took us to the airport, where we grabbed at quick breakfast at Bourbon. Sadly, it being so early, they hadn't restocked the shelves and we were presented with yesterday's cold, unappetising leftovers. This wouldn't have happened at Tesco.

We flew via Kilimanjaro, although sadly we couldn't see the majestic mountain for which it is famed. Immediately as you step off the plane a wall of muggy heat slaps you in the face. The climate in Tanzania is so different to Rwanda. While we were there the temperature hovered around 32 degrees, there was no rain and very few clouds to offer the relief of shade. I burnt just thinking about the sun. Rwanda is much more temperate; usually hot in the morning, about 27 degrees, and overcast/raining in the afternoon, cooling to about 22 degrees. You can cope with the sun because you know the rain is coming, and vice versa. In comparison Tanzania was crazy hot. As soon as we entered Tanzanian airspace you noticed the affect this has on the land. Everywhere was barren and dry, with dust storms plaguing the landscape.

Back on the plane it was just a short journey to Dar es Salaam, where we were met by Dora's colleague who showed us around. To our delight, he took us to a shopping centre for lunch. It felt massive, although in all honesty it was only the size of Hempsted Valley Shopping Centre, but it was still much bigger than what you can find in Kigali. It was called millipilli or something. I wasn't paying that much attention. The shops were really expensive, way out of my price range, but the clothes were so beautiful and well crafted; it was a real feast for my eyes. I’m gonna have a field day in SA I tell you.

We then moved on to our hotel (above). It was an hour and a half from the airport, right by the beach. If possible, it was even hotter here than in the town centre. The heat was uncomfortable, very sweaty and completely draining. And smelly. The combine

d smell of the sea, chlorinated swimming pool and sweaty bodies made for quite a powerful stench. Our room was nice, except for the double bed. Neither us us were keen on sharing, as Dora cuddles and I kick people that disturb my sleep. Eventually they moved us to a room with two singles, and there we stayed for the rest of the afternoon. It was too hot to sit outside, although I tried for a while. After twenty minutes I had to seek shelter in our air conditioned room which by comparison was freezing. That evening we went out to dinner with Dora's friend Nixon. He is a Kenyan working in Dar with the same company that Dora works for. We sat on the beach eating and talking until midnight, enjoying the smelly sea breeze. By this time the wind had picked up quite a bit making it rather cool. Dora and I went back to the hotel and slept soundly all night.

Tuesday 30th

I was at the office this morning. No suprises there. But I'm really enjoying it. The guys are really great and it's good to be busy again.


I went straight from the office into town to withdraw some money. I was down to £1.80 and I still have two weeks before I go to SA. When I got to the bank they refused to serve me without my passport, so I went home to pick it up.

From home I went to Ubuzima, but left early to have a lesson with Mama Judith. She is such a great lady and is a real blessing to me. We spent the first half an hour just talking, and she shared her wisdom with me. By the end I felt very encouraged. Please pray that God would bless her, provide for all her needs and reveal more of himself to her.

OK, back to the bank, this time with all the proper identification. Long story short, it took two hours for them to give me the money. There was queuing, technological failures and an arsey teller who didn't want to serve me. But I kept my cool and handled it very well. Honestly can't understand why there are no ATMs here. Will never complain about Natwest again.

I went to change the money into dollars and buy coffee for Dora's friend in Dar, who has been helping us with our trip. Yes people, I’m going on holiday with Dora and it's going to be awesome! I also picked up some samoosas from Simba Supermarket – the best I’ve ever eaten. Really missing bags with handles. It's hard to carry two or three heavy paper bags home on a bike. I got home at half seven, completely exhausted.

And I spent the rest of the evening packing for my trip to Tanzania.

Monday 29th

I was teaching at the office this morning. The guys trickled in at a leisurely pace as per usual, so we only started the lesson at about half ten. Until then, we sat in the garden reading the bible together which was really nice.

After the lesson I went into the storeroom to dig out some clothes for Isabelle and her brother only to find that it had been ransacked. I didn't know this at the time but the guys had been allowed in to take some clothes. Not one of my neat piles remained. It was as if they didn't care that someone had spend a lot of time and effort to arrange the clothes. I thought about crying. I considered screaming. But instead I took a deep breath, (I just had to take another one while writing this now), grabbed some clothes and locked the door. I'll deal with it in January. I have a lot of suppressed anger festering inside me. I think I need ministry.

In the afternoon I went with Mama Deborah to see Isabelle. We met her in Nyabugogo Market on the outskirts of Kigali. She lives about 2 hours away from there, but it's a bit of a trek which is why we don't go to her home. We spent an hour buying food for her family, beans, rice, cassava etc, and I took her the clothes as well. The bags soon became too heavy for us to lift, so we hired a guy to carry them on his head for a couple of hundred francs. She looked well, and it was really good to see her.

Today in Nyabugogo I felt for the first time like I was really in Africa. There were people everywhere hawking their goods, music blasting out, minibuses trying to run you down. You have to understand that Kigali is very orderly. It is clean, organised and modern. You can tell it's not England, but it doesn't really feel like Africa to me. But Nyabugogo was hectic and I loved the experience, probably because it only lasted a couple of hours.

In the evening we had the bible study and I walked home with David, who lives on the same street as me.

Sunday 28th - The longest day in history

OK, so yesterday afternoon was interesting. I had been told the wrong time to arrive at church to help serve the food, so by the time I got there everything was finished. Mama Deborah wanted to speak with me though, so it wasn't a wasted journey. She told me that Isabelle had run out of food a few days ago, and that someone had broken into the house and stolen her and her brother's clothes. Come on. You don't steal from an orphan. It's just wrong.

It's polite in Rwandan culture to take a gift with you when you visit someone's house and I usually take mandazis, which are a bit like doughnuts. The shop I buy them from was closed, so I had to go into town to buy something else. You know you're having a breakdown when you yell at someone over a matter of 8p. I got a bike into town, but the driver insisted on over charging me. From church to the shopping centre should be 400f, but he kept asking for 700f. This annoys me. I have have been here for two months. I am speaking to you in your language. I clearly know how much it should cost. Why are you so insistent in ripping me off? In the end we settled on 500f, but I wasn't happy. This is silly. It was my choice to get on the bike; I could have refused and found another bike. I really had no right to be cross. But I was. And when he stopped opposite the shopping centre rather than at it, despite there being no traffic and a clear run to the other side of the road, it was the final straw. “500!” I yelled. “You charge me 500 and can't even be bothered to drop me at the right place! 500!” He couldn't understand what I was saying; he looked more bemused than bishoped but I was narked and could no longer contain it. (I think I’ve lost perspective. 100 f is 8p; you wouldn't think twice if you lost it in the UK, but here it seems like an awful lot).

And of course there were hundreds of people there trying to sell me Jeune Afrique and The Economist. Do I look like I read The Economist? So I throw myself onto the zebra crossing, which drivers are by no means obligated to stop at, to be met by another throng of people trying to sell me airtime. And the annoying thing was that I actually needed it because I had lent my phone to someone earlier that afternoon.

I get into the supermarket and there's a power cut, which isn't that bad in itself, it just served as a reminder of where I am. Africa. And I’m here by choice. I spent the next twenty minutes locked in the public toilets reminding myself of this fact, as I do quite frequently now. I am here by choice. And I love it. Yeah, I think it's culture shock.

Anyway, I went back to church to meet Appolonaire, and while I was waiting Suz phoned me. “The reason people want your money is because they're poor and they're trying to feed their families.” This made sense and put me in a better mood. We walked up to Appolonaire's house together and we sat down to pray. People here pray before and after they do anything. Quite often to my shame, I forget, which can get a bit awkward sometimes. I always feel challenged here peoples' faith and love of God. I don't Apollonaire's story; he didn't feel confident enough to tell it in English, but I’m sure it's not an easy one. (He is one of the boys IT took off the streets, and now he is seventeen). But he spent the next ten minutes thanking God for his goodness, love and provision. And he really meant it.

We had been there awhile when this umusaza came in. (Umusaza means old man. People here call you by your appearance, which is why I’m muzungu, white man). He had in his hand a painting which he obviously wanted to sell. To me. I explained that while it was a very nice painting, I didn't need or want it right now. He kept lowering the price, but I told him it wouldn't be right to pay so little for it. Sell it to someone else and you'll get a better price, I urged. But he looked at me and said, “Je suis artist. J'ai besoin de fumer!”, at which point we all cracked up in laughter and I handed over the money. So I got a cheap painting and he got some cigarettes.

I dropped the painting at home before going into town to meet Jash for the film. It was actually a really good set up. The restaurant had comfortable chairs, a white screen and a projector, which honestly felt very luxurious. We did have to pay for entry, two pounds each, but that included popcorn, which I traded for a soda. And we ordered chocolate brownies with homemade ice cream, with extra ice cream, for dinner.

When the film finished we walked back into the town centre to get bikes home. For the first time since I’ve been here (except for the children incident when Suz was here) I felt a bit uncomfortable. I haven't been out that late before, and the atmosphere was different. The taxi pimps were being really pushy and were getting all in our faces. They stopped harassing us when we got on the bikes though and that was that. The final event of the day was getting completely lost in my suburb. It was pitch black and Jash had directed the bike guy straight down the hill rather than round it. Of course we got lost, and my attempt to redirect him only made things worse. I live in quite a poor neighbourhood, it was now after ten pm, and I had no clue how to get home. There are guys lining the streets holding sticks and machetes. (This is normal; it's an agricultural community and people use them to work. The threat was perceived not real, but it was still unsettling). I’m confident that the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed, but the thought actually crossed my mind that this might be it, the end of the road. I felt incredibly vulnerable and was so relieved when I finally made it home. We stumbled across my house by chance. The suburbs here are a jumbled network of entwining paths and hills, houses and shops dotted about all over the place. We drove around in the dark trying to get back onto the main road to start the journey afresh when I recognised where I was, and a feeling of intense relief washed over me. Needless to say, next time I won't take the risk – I’ll get our driver to pick me up. Lesson learned.

As for Sunday itself, I went to church in the morning and chilled out in the afternoon. Probably. I can't really remember, so I doubt it was anything spectactular.