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I knew as soon as I drove out of Kigali International Airport that Rwanda had something special in store – the brightly painted local-beer branded walls, Coca-Cola kiosks, old furniture roadside warehouses, the beautifully manicured pavements, the many rolling hills in the distance, the curious gaze of locals from their seats in minibuses while on their commute and the agile motorcycles effortlessly making their way through traffic. My eyes absorbing the vibrancy of Kigali’s early-morning bustle. Growing up in the city my family would occasionally take a six-hour drive to my grandmother’s village in the rural parts of Zululand and so something about this drive out of the city into rural Rwanda felt familiar. I had always appreciated changing landscapes and road trips were ideal for watching people go about their daily life as new scenes flicked passed me. It was on the third day of my visit to Kigali when I would take the scenic one-hour long drive to a rural village in Rwanda as part of a group. While others leaned into their seats in search of a comfortable position to dose off, I leaned slightly to the side of the vehicle for support, eagerly setting my eyes on the views beside me so that I could satisfy my childlike curiosity. The scenes before me changed from maneuvering motorcycles and pedestrians pacing through town to crowded markets and locals transporting an array of goods by bicycle and finally, to the blankets of never-ending rolling hills and the vivid green expanse of vegetation. Finally, we arrived at Cyeza Village in the Muhunga District of Rwanda. We were introduced to and greeted by the staff at Azizi Life. When Mama Juliette, who would later go by the name Mama J, introduced herself she declared with warmth, “My name is Juliette. I am your mom.” Scanning the compound I noticed the drying beans and peanuts hanging almost like ornaments on the outside of the house. I would later learn how important these ingredients were in Rwandan cooking. I also noticed that each house had a modest stable with a cow inside it, a main house and kitchen and an outside area resembling a courtyard which brought the house together. The courtyard was a place to gather and prepare meals together. This is where we met the soft-spoken Papa Jean, his kind-hearted wife Grace and their daughter Estelle. They welcomed us into their family and community with genuine smiles, warm hugs and colourful kangas cut from vibrantly patterned African fabrics. Before we could help prepare the food, Papa Jean would lead the way to the watering hole. We were given large, yellow water jugs and excitedly journeyed down to the bottom of one of the many rolling hills to a communal tap mounted onto a weathered but stable concrete slab. I knew when signing up for the tour that I would be hosted by a local family in the village but the chance encounter at the well made the experience all the more special. My eyes rested on a slim but sturdy physique approaching us – like me, wearing a kanga around her waist over a long-sleeved shirt, only hers was a faded blue and yellow. As she came nearer her faraway yet warm eyes, which I am sure had witnessed a plethora of events - both unsettling and comforting, met with mine. Her warm and wide smile created creases on her forehead and around her eyes and she embraced me – her rosary making contact with my chest while she muttered a string of incomprehensible words. Although I did not understand I exclaimed, “Murakoze mama” which meant thank you in Kinyarwanda. Papa Jean explained that she was praying for me and giving blessings. I walked back up the hill with a warm feeling in my belly. The tour would continue with the washing and chopping of veggies, the hissing and sizzling of onions and tomatoes being fried in clay pots, the pounding of and then the stirring of sticky, starchy cassava and the aroma of a peanut sauce rising into my nostrils but I would be fixated on the local connection made with a stranger at the watering hole in rural Rwanda.