I was on my way to La Paillotte Cyuza Island in Lake Burera, where I was scheduled to spend an entire weekend resting.
The journey had begun in Musanze and followed the Musanze–Cyanika road into Burera District. I was not going all the way to the Cyanika border post. At Rugarama Market, I would leave the main road and continue toward the lake before sailing to the island.
It was a sunny Friday afternoon when I stopped for a water break by the roadside in Gahunga.
This was not one of the coffee breaks I usually take in cafés while exploring the Land of a Thousand Cups. Water breaks are usually shorter and more spontaneous. They happen by the roadside, often without any planning.
In many cases, thirst was not even the reason for stopping. Sometimes I simply needed to stretch my legs. At other times, a striking view forced me to slow down. Some scenes invited a brief glance. Others demanded that I stop, take out my phone, and spend a few moments absorbing them.
In Gahunga, it was the sight of Mount Muhabura.
The towering volcano rose above the village with an imposing presence. The people of Gahunga lived beneath its shadow, going about their daily lives under one of the most magnificent natural landmarks in the region.
I could not stop looking at it.
There was something almost magical about the way it dominated the landscape. It seemed both distant and incredibly close, watching over the village as people walked, worked, traded, and traveled below.
Eventually, I had to continue with my journey. Fortunately, I knew my encounter with Muhabura was not ending there. The cottage I had booked on Cyuza Island overlooked the same volcano. For the rest of the weekend, I would be able to gaze at it from my balcony and even from inside my room through the window.
Before leaving Gahunga, however, I took time to look around.
Life was unfolding all around me. Children were walking home from school. Passenger shuttles stopped to drop off and pick up travelers. Shops remained open as customers moved in and out. Motorcycles roared along the road, while music drifted from nearby bars.
I was about to climb back onto my motorcycle when I paused again.
Instead of leaving immediately, I took a short walk through the village and allowed myself to feel its rhythm. I entered a small kiosk and bought another bottle of water to replace the one I had just finished. I then stopped at a motorcycle garage, where I had my chain adjusted and lubricated.
While the mechanics worked, I chatted with them and with several motorcycle taxi operators gathered nearby.
It was only a brief stop, but for a few moments, I no longer felt like a traveler simply passing through. I felt connected to the place, as though I had become a small part of the community beneath Mount Muhabura.