The end of trips like these are always
strange. I’ve been on 3 now, where I am
randomly thrown in with people whom I did not know before. It’s weird, like “lets have this random life
experience together!” Sometimes I don’t
know where in my mind these things fit.
So the night before I left, I wrote up some
notes to my amigos. I wasn’t able to
pack really because some of my clothes were still wet from being washed. Sometimes
I long for things, like clothes dyers.
The plan was to have breakfast, then head
into Kigali. So said goodbyes around
9:15 and myself, Maureen, Saive, Kevin, Francios and, of course, Isaiah drove
off into the hills. I’d decided to go to
Mbarara, instead of all the way back to Kampala. The community where I use to live is
literally ON the road that takes me to Kampala.
So I knew I should stop for a few days to visit.
I almost died once along the way to Kigali. We went around a corner, and someone was dead
stopped in the middle of the road.
Isaiah slammed on the breaks. I
was sitting in the far back seat of the mini bus, where in front of me was empty
space (with seats that can be folded down into it). I went flying forward and almost did the
slits in the isle. I made a snarky
comment to Isaiah, and Francios came to his defence right away that it was not
his fault. So I made a joke and we
laughed.
We reached Kigali in good time, the
beautiful hills providing endless vistas to gaze at as we flew around hairpin
turns. I knew the bus park. As soon as we got close, I knew we were
there. Isaiah had bought me a ticket
earlier in the week. We went to the
horizon office. I jumped out with a
“back to Africa”! My white colleagues
waved and stayed in the van. Francis and
Isaiah went with me to the booking office.
I squeezed into the small space with Isaiah, across the desk from me was
a very large, incredibly over made-up woman.
She spoke English. I got annoyed
she charged me the whole fair to Kampala, even though I was only going to
Mbarara. She didn’t seemed to
bothered.
We left the office and said goodbyes,
Francis saying that he wants to see me very soon to visit with his family. No
problem, good man. I promised Isaiah
I would call him when I need a taxi in Kigali.
The bus people pointed me to a seat, the
crowd parted and I plunked down on a dirty old bus bench, covered in faded,
crusty gold fabric. Let’s just say it’d
never been reupholstered. Throughout the
time I sat there, various people squeeze next to me on my golden bench. At one point a mom with a baby sat next to
me. The baby was intrigued by my stuffed
haggis key chain. I knew that’d come in handy someday. I read.
I made annoyed faces at the lady in the office, once the bus was
late. I watched the people around
me.
Finally, an hour late, we were herded to a
parking lot across the street. We were a
strange crew of people. 2 very old
Rwandan men who looked like they’d never left the village. One of them had a cool hat on. A family of a dad and 3 boys, all dressed in
their Sunday best. The little one was
all dressed up, with a big protruding belly which popped one of his buttons. A very old man, who had sat next to me most
of the time we waited, who had a scarf wrapped around his neck, covering a
large goitter. Actually rather
fashionably. Two tall, young men. They asked me if we were waiting for the bus
to Kampala. I responded that we
were. The man who asked then said
“Should I give you a buiscuit”? I
declined. No, you probably shouldn’t.
We finally get on the bus. 1:15.
Only an hour and 45 minutes late.
Wow, that’s pretty good. Once on
the bus, I look for a window seat. About
2/3rds of the way to the back of the bus, I found an empty row and squeezed in
with my backpack wedge on the floor and my small bag on my lap.
The two very old Rwandan men decided that
sitting with me is their best bet. So
they squeeze in next to me, squishing me hard against the window. Over the course of the trip, in my mind, I
ended up calling them my two Rwandan boyfriends.
About 10 minutes into the ride, I feel the
old man next to me poke my leg. I look
down. My skirt had gotten caught under
my leg while climbing into the seat and was showing a very small part of my
lower thigh. The old men giggle, I sigh
and correct my skirt. Thanks modesty police.
The roads in Rwanda are smooth. Smooth enough that you can nap, so I did a little. And enjoyed the mountains.
The border crossing was rough. The men who were sitting with me were
clueless, but I wasn’t able to help them because I knew it would be a disaster.
I had high hopes that they wouldn’t make
me pay to re-enter. But after an
argument with two of the border officials, I finally put down 50 dollars and
ran out of the building. I was hungry
and annoyed so I went to buy chapatti and the man charged me 1000 for one chapatti, I was so annoyed. Everything in me was tired, and I cried in my
seat, overwhelmed by it all. My
boyfriends got back on the bus, and needed a water. One of the men had 200 shillings, not enough
for water to buy water. But I still stuck
my head out the window and asked how much water was. They were charging 1000
shillings for a small bottle! This is
highway robbery. A small bottle is
5-600, no more. I argued with the man
for a long time.
I believe that clean, drinkable water is a
basic human right. The man refused to
change his mind. So finally I reached
into my bag and pulled out my personal second bottle of water and gave it to
the men. They were very happy and
grateful, sharing it between the two of them, and of course saving some for
later.
The ride took a long time. The driver decided that it would be cool to
stop and buy matooke 4 time... my blatter did not agree. At one point, one of my “boyfriends” bought a
bunch of yellow bananas.
Of course they offered me one. Usually, I would have accepted. This time, however, I didn’t think my stomach
needed anything else in it. And the
bananas they bought were very brown on top, they looked a little over rip for
me.
Then began the most “terrifying” 15 minutes
of the trip. In Uganda, when you travel,
you buy food along the way. So when you
need to discard something you throw it out the window. Now, I am sitting next to the window, and
these men are eating a whole bunch of bananas.
After their first ones they want to throw
the peels. I tentatively open the window
about 3 inches, cringing and praying that I don’t get a peel in the face. The aerodynamics are NOT in my favour. We had one very very close call, but in the
end my face came out unbananaed and the men’s bellies were somewhat full.
By
the time we neared Mbarara, I was about to explode. Thankfully the road to the community is RIGHT
on the Kabale road, which is the one you take out of Rwanda. So I got out at the road and began to walk up
the long, pothole filled red hill.
Suddenly I heard a car behind me.
I looked and it was the red truck, so I stopped walking knowing it would
pick me up. As it approached I heard
screams from inside, screams of delight. Father Emmanuel parked the truck and jumped
out and gave me a hug, from inside I could hear the happy hellos from Rose and
Maura. I climbed in and we drove up the
hill, together.
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