Rwanda: Running Where Life Is Loud, Kind, and Relentlessly Uphill

I nearly didn’t take the TrailKube there at all.

It was on the way there that I nearly didn’t take the TrailKube with me at all. At the airport, bags open, people milling about, I’d left it with a couple of friends while I nipped to the loo — and for a brief, heart-stopping moment it looked like I’d lost it entirely. Instead, it had been rescued, gathered up and carefully carried on board by co-travellers, like some kind of unofficial relay baton. It felt oddly fitting.

Rwanda, unknown to myself at the time, would be like that from the start — communal, watchful, never really alone.

They call it the land of a thousand hills.
They’re underselling it.

A country that moves, grows, and watches

One of the first things that struck me was how full Rwanda feels. Not crowded — just alive. There are people everywhere. Children everywhere. Life everywhere. As you run through villages, kids shout constantly:

“How are YOU?”
“Give me your money!”

Over and over. At first it’s funny. Then it’s distracting. Then, honestly, it gets a bit irritating — especially when you’re climbing in the heat and trying to stay focused. But then you notice the pattern: they don’t just shout. They move. A few kids become a few dozen. Suddenly you’ve got a conga line of children running through an entire village with you, laughing, shouting, keeping pace far longer than you’d expect.

It’s impossible to feel invisible there.

The land itself reflects that same intensity. There isn’t a spare inch. Even impossibly steep slopes are cultivated — sweetcorn, sweet potatoes, garlic, sugar cane, bananas. Everything that can grow, does. Between that, the turquoise-painted villages, and the sheer cleanliness (no litter, anywhere), Rwanda feels cared for in a way that’s deeply grounding.

And always, somewhere in the background, a volcano. Massive. Silent. Watching.

Heat, altitude, and no easing in

I went from a sleety, grey UK straight into equatorial heat. No acclimatisation. No gentle introduction. Just arrived… and went for it.

The heat was relentless. The altitude didn’t hit me as badly as it did some, but combined with the elevation, it took its toll across the field. Of the 35 starters, 10 didn’t finish — injuries, heatstroke, exhaustion, stomach issues. Even UltraX added extra water stops on Day 2 because it was that hot. Locals were saying the same thing.

And still — people danced within two hours of finishing.

That tells you something.

Camp life, frogs, and a woven gorilla

Ultra running is strange like that. You can go from complete ruin to joy in a matter of minutes.

We camped by a lake one night. Frogs everywhere. Loud, relentless croaking that kept people awake. Another night, we slept at the Gorilla Naming Site, watched over by a huge woven gorilla, twenty metres tall, looming above camp like a guardian. There was also a boat trip across the lake to the start line — surreal, quiet, everyone half-awake and already tired before a single step was run.

Between Day 1 and Day 2, I didn’t even take my running kit off. Slept in it. Woke up in it. Stinky, yes — but oddly practical. Rwanda strips things back to what matters.

The people (this is the bit that stays)

What made the race wasn’t the terrain — brutal though it was — but the people.

There was Joe, who I spent most of Day 1 with. A top bloke. We took turns dragging each other through the hard bits, no ego, just shared effort. There was Will and Ali, who I ran with on Day 1 to make sure they got safely to the next checkpoint before the medics took over. That moment mattered more than any split time.

On Day 2, I ran with three members of the Kigali Running Club. As we moved through the countryside, they talked about Rwanda — its history, customs, how things are done. Running became the backdrop rather than the focus, and suddenly everything clicked into place. The country made sense in motion.

There was Maia, who’d casually “run up” the volcano a week before the race — and then went on to win, fastest female. And John, the male winner, who said Day 1 was the hardest 60km he’d ever run. No exaggeration. No bravado. Just respect for the effort.

That’s what stood out most: no egos. Winners and back-of-packers congratulating each other with the same sincerity. People upgrading from the 50km to the full 110km the night before because something inside them said, why not?

Small moments that say everything

I fell over at one point. Completely my fault. A man cycled past with a pig on the back of his bike, I got distracted, tumbled, and ended up sitting on the side of the track laughing at myself. No damage. Just humility.

Church music drifted across the hills on Day 1, lifting the mood when legs were fading. Women walking to church in vibrant dresses moved through the intense greenery, standing out like tropical flowers against the hills — colour layered on colour. Despite being in the middle of nowhere, I always felt safe. Completely at ease. Rwanda has that effect.

Gratitude (the quiet kind)

Somewhere along the way — usually when things were at their hardest — I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. To be alive. To be healthy enough to do this. To have the means, the fitness, and the courage to throw myself into the unknown and simply get on with it.

That’s not something you feel every day.

A quiet side story: kit, curiosity, and connection

There was also something else happening, quietly, alongside the race.

At kit check, there was huge interest in the TrailKube. People asked. Picked it up. Opened it. Nodded. It even ended up featured in the UltraX video edit. One runner said he expected it to cost over £100. Another called me a “kit wanker” — which, in runner-speak, is basically a compliment.

But what mattered more than any of that was how natural it felt. No selling. No pitching. Just runners recognising something useful when they saw it.

That, more than anything, mirrored the spirit of the race.

Leaving Rwanda

The final night was at Pili Pili, overlooking Kigali. Food, stories, laughter, tired legs tucked under tables. A sense that something had been shared — not just endured.

When I think back on Rwanda now, I don’t just think about hills, heat, or distance. I think about people moving together through a landscape that demands effort but gives back far more than it takes.

I felt at home there almost immediately.

And that’s a rare thing to say about a place that nearly broke you.