Peter de Graaf cycles through Rwanda.

"Mzee!" shouted the children running home for lunch on a red dirt road. "Mzee!" called an old woman crouched in a doorway of her breeze-block home. "Mzee!" said a policeman standing guard at a jetty, tipping his cap in mock salute.

I guessed the word meant something like white man or foreigner. That would make sense, after all, in a place where tourists are still novel enough to attract attention. However, the sheer number of people calling out the greeting as I pedalled through the Rwandan countryside had me puzzled. I asked my guide,

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