The grave in the garden

This is a lasting testimony to my inability to communicate by sign language. I thought I had asked Modeste, our watchman, to clear a patch of ground of some light weeds, as we intended to plant some vegetables. I came home at lunchtime to find him, under the full glare of the tropical sun, in a hole of grave-like proportions. I didn’t have the heart to fill it in, but we have converted it to a compost pit, so at least it will serve some practical purpose. An added bonus is that we now conform to Rwandan law, which states among many other things that every home must generate its own compost. Meanwhile, I did the weeding myself. Must get on with learning Kinyarwandan…..