Weekend at Kigali

Our training director Mup allows us certain freedoms, such as letting us cook our own food every once in a while and letting us take day trips, however overnights anywhere are typically prohibited. So, a few friends and I decided to make use of these freedoms and take a day trip to Kigali. We left in the morning and enjoyed a leisurely ride the 2 hours it takes to get there. When we got to Kigali, we decided to check out the art market, which turned out to be a bunch of art shops selling typically African stuff. It was approaching lunch time so we went to look for an Indian food place that is basically out of this world. While walking in the general direction, who should pass us but the Peace Corps car. Of course, they stop and proceed to drive us the extra 200 meters to our destination. We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the 'mazungu' store and enjoying being adults. By the time we are getting ready to leave at 4 it has started to sprinkle. We are already a little late since we are supposed to be back by dark as we can't travel at night. We get to the bus station and go to buy tickets only to be told 8:00 meaning the next available bus leaving... 2 hours after we are supposed to be in Nyanza. After trying several more bus companies we realize that there are no available buses. We are huddled in the rain, calling out Nyanza in the hopes there is another bus, and dreading having to call Mup and explain.

We look up and who should walk by but a current volunteer we had met a few weeks ago. "Tom!!!!!" Tom is confused at first at seeing us there, but quickly understands our situation. He decides to call Mup. "Mup, I have found six of your trainees." Mup, being the overprotective father figure replies, "What? Sick trainees? I will be there in 10 minutes!" "No Mup, 6 trainees. No they aren't sick. I found 6 of them. We're in Nyanza, not Kigali." After a few more attempts Mup understands that we are not sick, only stuck without a bus. "Stay there, I'm sending a driver!" All the way from Nyanza?? Ok, we will stay Mup. We move to a gas station and wait. 10 minutes later Mup calls again. "I can't send a driver. They can't drive at night. Stay there, I'm sending someone!" How is that any different Mup? At this point we have no idea what is happening. Pretty soon we get yet another call. "Go to the Nakumat Shopping Center, you will meet the driver there!" So, we trudge back to where we had just spent 4 hours and are waiting in the parking lot for the Peace Corps car. We get yet another call, this time the driver. "I am inside, where are you?" How did we not see them drive by? Eventually we meet up with the driver and we go to the hostel, a full minute away.

Finally, we are sitting around in the tiny hostel room, laughing and eating leftover Indian. Suddenly we hear a voice at the window, "Peace Corps?" We open up the door and in come 10 more current volunteers circus car style into our room. The rest of the night goes by with friends and a lot of laughing. The next morning, bright and early, the good ole Peace Corps car shows up to cart us back to Nyanza with the PC Medical Officer who was on her way down as well. A perfect end to a fantastic weekend. What an amazing experience!

The seemingly innocuous bus ride:

First of all, throw out all your preconceived notions about what a bus ride is typically like; they have no bearing on riding a bus in Rwanda. This seemingly innocent ride is far from the leisurely form of transportation that delivers you safely from one landmark to another. Riding the bus in Rwanda is more like a sport. An active participation sort of deal. Let your concentration slip for just one moment and it's all over. The first challenge is identifying your appropriate ride. Not to make things too easy, bus labeling systems are non-existent. You are better off trying to identify the said bus by scent or some magical equation of the number of scratches on the side multiplied by the time of day. Once your target bus has been chosen, you begin the next harrowing adventure: boarding the bus. There is an old cliche about salmon swimming upstream, but never has it been more appropriate than for this scenario. There is no waiting for other the current passengers to embark nor orderly line to board the bus in a sensical fashion, it is one for all and all for one. You scramble over legs, suitcases, seats, and other paraphernalia until you collapse into an empty seat, pulling your own baggage behind you. You have barely a split second to move your bags onto your own lap lest they be sat on by the oncoming tide. In Rwanda, a person is given one place and one place only to put themselves and whatever else they have brought, so that enormous American camping backpack, shoulder bag, and heavy duty road bike helmet goes the only place it will fit; on your lap. Now the fun begins. You settle yourself between two complete strangers, your sense of personal space evaporating like the exhaust from the back of the vehicle. In most other instances, the fact that Rwanda is the land of 10,000 hills is wonderful, spectacular, and an amazing site. In a bus however, that fact has the same ring as a marathon. Riding a Rwandan bus tests both your strength and endurance. Without the benefit of a solid wide base of your feet or available handholds, it is up to your core and legs to keep the rest of your body from tumbling straight into the lap of your neighbor. The first couple of tight turns go smoothly, without causality or problem. Then, with each additional turn, it takes less time for your legs to start burning and shaking, your stomach to feel like you are in the plank position, and your arms to feel like they are about to give out and drop your bag. While you cling for dear life and some semblance of decency and personal space, the neighbors on either side of you have seemingly managed to fall asleep, their bodies listing with each turn. Amazingly though, despite their slumber, they maintain full control of their body, never crossing that invisible barrier between you two. They must have some impressive extra Rwanda sense, something that goes along with their ability to not feel stifled when there are no windows open. I have yet to figure out if is is on account of the cold or the wind, but once the bus picks up speed, the windows slide shut. And, don't even worry about shutting your own, because if anyone in your vicinity feels like they do not want the window open, they will reach across and close it for you. Eventually, you fall into a rhythm of pushing against one foot, flexing your leg, and holding your bags with one hand, and switching sides the very next moment. Finally, upon reaching your destination, assuming you didn't drive by it because you didn't signal the driver by tapping on the window with a coin, you face your last great hurdle; disembarking. Sometimes, if you are lucky, the passengers in your line to the door are all leaving, however this is a rarity. Other riders with stand up and move to the side of the aisle to give you just enough room for you alone squeeze past, never mind your bags. Unfortunately, you don't disembark without your baggage so you either bowl people over in front of you or clock someone on the head behind you. Either way, you get out as quickly as possible so you don't have look behind you to see the damage you left in your wake. And thus ends your harrowing experience of riding a Rwandan bus.