The only place in the entire world where tourists fly in aboard huge jambo jets just to take a look at the fresh emerald green shoots of ibirayi sprouting from compact and pitch-black volcanic soils can only found in Rwanda. 

That place is Kinigi, in Musanze, Northern Province. This is a known fact the world over, and who are you to dispute it?

In fact, if I had a say at RDB, I would seriously consider issuing ibirayi-viewing permits to Kinigi for all interested tourists, just like the permits they purchase expensively to view the famed mountain gorillas nearby.  

After all, the world’s very best variety of Irish potatoes is named after this chilly, bamboo-forested little village in Musanze. Personally, all the fresh food dealers in my area code now know me as regards my taste in ibirayi. It is either Kinigi, or no ibirayi, and on that, there is no compromise.

And for its part, Musanze is the best place in the world from which to go jogging early in the morning.

The problem with jogging in Kigali is that it’s largely a "me, myself, and I” affair, usually limited to the less-familiar boulevards of Nyarutarama and Kiyovu. When I go in for a jog, I want to do it from a place where both my enemies and friends can see and envy my muscles as I do the sprint and break a sweat. What use is jogging when your friends can’t envy you for your stamina?

For that reason, I would prefer to jog in Nyabugogo and Nyamirambo and at Rubangura’s and the Tigo round-about and around Kimironko market, for maximum effect. Who wants to jog in cold, impersonal Nyarutarama?

In cold and mean Nyarutarama, folks either choose to jog in solitude, usually with earphones plugged into their ears, blaring music ofcourse, or they do it with their dogs.

Now, jogging with your exotic breed puppy is not as criminal as walking the mongrel into the neighborhood grocery store, which a few folks delight in doing –but still, for a jog, I would choose humans around me to man’s best friend.

In Musanze town, the jogging experience is a more civil affair, in that the folks there do it with a near sense of national duty. True, there are the lone joggers, and in large numbers too, but there are the familiar bands of mature, respectable-looking morning joggers who usually have a uniform dress code: white sneakers, truck suits, white T-shirts and Polo shirts, and baseball caps.

Usually, they go about their routine while chanting slogans of patriotism and solidarity. And the grace and dignity with which they carry themselves is what has forced me to join the slow caravan every once in a while that a bright sunny morning has caught me in Musanze.