A friend’s son traveled around the world on his bicycle. He said invarably the nicest people he met were those with the least amount of money. From my experience, the same was true in the United States.

 

Rwanda, where many people can afford to eat only once or twice a day, showed us again and again not only how kind people were, but also how much they cared.

 

At a restaurant, I spilled spaghetti sauce on my cream-colored shirt. Years ago, an airline steward told me that soda water could remove almost any stain. They used it on planes all the time: simply pour it on, then blot it up.

 

I went to the restaurant, but the waitress had none. She offered to clean the shirt for me.

 

“That’s okay. It’s no big deal. I can wash it in my room,” I reassured her.

 

Fifteen minutes later, the phone in our room rang.

 

“Hello, did you get the stain out of your shirt?”

 

Many people sent us messages to see whether we had arrived safely at our next destination. The woman who worked at an Airbnb, our guide at a lodge on Lake Kivu, and the woman at a gift shop I visited for only half an hour all sent WhatsApp messages wondering if we made it. 

 

The person who went out of her way to help me the most, and checked on me later, was Sonia Umutoniwase in the large rural town of Kibuye.

 

I took a moto taxi to the grocery store to search for cheese and chocolate for our Airbnb. I told the driver that I wanted to go to the largest market in town. The moto taxi dropped me off at an enormous outdoor market selling every imaginable fruit and vegetable. As I walked in, women swarmed around me.

 

“Bananas! Papaya! Pineapple! Tomatoes! Peppers!”

 

Realizing there were no dairy products or candy aisles, I left with four bananas which are normally sold in clusters of 50 and three carrots. I expected to find my moto taxi waiting for me, but he was not. I reached into my bag for my phone to call him and discovered that it was gone.

 

Panic quickly set in. I couldn’t call Geoff to rescue me. I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel across from our Airbnb, and I was too far away to walk back. Unfortunately, the people at the market knew only the English names of their fruits and vegetables.

 

I stood in the dirt parking lot in a bright yellow linen dress, flip-flops, and blue hair, looking ridiculous. I felt like crying when Sonia Umutoniwase walked up.

 

“Don’t worry. We are going to help you,” she said.

 

Using broken English, we made an unsuccessful attempt to make an international call to Geoff.  Due to the stress of the situation I could not remember the name of the hotel across from where we were staying, I finally remembered that Geoff was going to the Environment Museum, where at least people there spoke English.

 

Sonia got me a moto taxi and told me to pay him 60 cents to take me to the museum. It worked. Once I arrived and spoke to the gentleman at the museum, I remembered that our place was near the Cormorant Hotel. After another 60 cent moto taxi ride, and I made it back to our Airbnb. My phone was on the coffee table in plain sight.

 

Later that day, Geoff received a message from Sonia:

 

“My name is Sonia Umutoniwase. I live in Rwanda. Yesterday I met your wife, who had lost her phone. She was lost and wanted to tell you, so when you called her, you would know that she had found help. She gave me your number to call you and tell you, but we did not talk much.”