Ndi Umugenzi [I am a Traveler]

I made plans with my two nearest PCVs, Matt and Casey, to go to Kibuye. A nice chance to connect after our first week alone at site.

As the trip neared, I was so nervous about navigating the travel on my own that I nearly backed out. But I wanted that Christmas package waiting at the post office and I knew I was going to have to face traveling sooner or later.

I woke the morning of my trip and washed my dishes so they wouldn’t sit dirty for two days. I packed a simple overnight bag and locked my doors.

I had told my neighbors and headmaster I would be going but made quick reminders anyway. The day marked my one week anniversary at site and people are still inclined to think I may throw in the towel and go home at any moment. I made sure they heard me say, ‘Ni’ahejo’ [I’ll see you tomorrow].

I walked the back way out of my compound, past the primary school, and through the back gate of the hospital. I know a few people at the hospital, including the Director who has welcomed me warmly and given me his number in case I ever have any problems.

Today was not for visiting the Director, though; my goal was the drivers. I made my way to the line of trucks and ambulances and approached the one car with its engine idling.

After simple greetings, I asked ‘Ugiye he?’ [Where are you going?]. To Kigali, they replied. Yes! ‘Mshobora kujya i Rubengera na wowe?’ [Can I go to Rubengera with you?].

Then proceeded fast Kinyarwanda that I barely understood, the involvement of another driver, and many hand motions. At the end, I was 60% confident my request had been approved.

I stood to the side to wait and see.

I greeted patients and staff, awkwardly using my limited Kinyarwanda but impressing people nonetheless. A little effort goes a long way. I made friends with a young lab technician who spoke fairly decent English.

Finally, an administrative employee I had met previously approached. He was going on the trip to Kigali and confirmed I could indeed catch a ride.

We proceeded to wait an hour. My traveling companion left his bag in my care and disappeared to handle business and hunt down the visiting French doctor we were chauffeuring.

When at last we were on our way, I took a moment to feel proud for finding myself a free ride before realizing the next leg of my journey would be even more daunting. Here I rode in a decent passenger vehicle with people I vaguely knew; next I had to catch an Express bus on a main road to a big city…all in Kinyarwanda.

Matt and Casey were ahead of me, living half the distance from the main road as me and also having caught a ride. I had hopes we’d rendezvous at Rubengera so I would have companions for the rest of my journey. It was not to be.

At 10:24, they texted saying they were catching the 10:30 bus – would I make it?

I was close, I knew, but probably not six minutes close.

At 10:33, my car pulled up to the bus station as Matt and Casey drove away, waving from their seats in the crowded bus. I was on my own again.

Having missed the Capitol bus, I asked directions to the other bus company, Impala, and ventured forth to buy a ticket and wait.

As luck would have it, only 20 minutes passed before I climbed aboard and settled into easy conversation with my seat mate, a nurse from Gitarama, a main town closer to Kigali.

I arrived in Kibuye not long after my friends, feeling more confident, both in traveling alone and in my conversational Kinyarwanda skills!

The trip home the next day proved to be a bit more adventurous…

I carried four packages. One was my long awaited Christmas package and three for another volunteer meeting me in Rubengera. I had one package between my legs, one in my shoulder bag, my backpack and the last two packages precariously balanced on my lap. My seat mate didn’t strike up conversation. She probably didn’t appreciate being poked by boxes every time we went around a turn and I momentarily lost control.

Liz was thankfully waiting at the station though and I off-loaded packages through the window before disembarking. We sat for an hour to catch up and catch my breath before I faced my next traveling hurdle.

A Twege [mini bus] was my preferred mode of travel back toward my site, but they come remarkably seldom along my rough road and it was already getting toward sundown.

Not wanting to arrive at my mountain in the dark, I took a gamble, and the more expensive choice, by hopping on a moto.

We went along smoothly for thirty minutes. My package between the drivers’ arms, my shoulder bag tucked between our bodies and my nalgene bumping the side of my leg. I was just feeling confident with my balance and the dips and turns of the road when rain drops began to fall.

My driver called back to me. I heard ‘rain’ and ‘stop’ and tried to respond. But since I didn’t really know what he had asked, our conversation went nowhere. He tried French, which was even worse.

A house was coming up on our left and he pointed. I said, ‘nta kibazo’ [no problem]. I would trust his judgement. Besides, I wasn’t wearing a coat and was beginning to get soaked.

We pulled over at the same time as a young bicyclist and the three of us begged shelter from the storm.

A young mother was home, four or five children about. The baby cried in alarm upon seeing my pale face and we all laughed.

The three travelers crowded onto a wooden bench as the mother calmed her baby with a nursing breast. The house was dark. There was no electricity, a mud floor, and the chickens and goats rushed in to hide from the rain alongside us.

The bicyclist pulled out his phone and shared a video of President Paul Kagame giving a speech.

It occupied us and the children while the mother went about her chores and the rain fell through the cracks in the straw roof.

The rain was just a drizzle when my umumotari [moto driver] decided it was safe to proceed.

The path to the road was a gentle slope but slick with rainwater. After I nearly fell, a stick was fetched for me and I began gingerly making my way, trying to keep my feet from flying out from under me.

My driver faired better, being more used to navigating slippery ground, but nonetheless, he nearly capsized his motorcycle on the way down.

Once we were both safely on the road, he wiped the seat for me and took up my package again. Then he pointed to the treacherously wet road and asked for an extra thousand francs on the price. I had negotiated him down from that price to begin with and, frankly, wasn’t sure I wanted to ride if it was so dangerous he required an extra charge. But it was that or sit around with the Mama hoping for a car to drive by.

In the end, I agreed. He had to have ridden in similar conditions before and I didn’t figure he’d risk gaining a reputation as the moto driver who killed a new Peace Corps Volunteer. So off we went.

The air was filled with mist and I quickly became wet and cold. The road was awash in rivers of water running down to the valley below. At times, the mud was so slick the driver had to use his feet to keep the bike from sliding out from under us.

We went slower than a dry road would have permitted and I appreciated his caution. I watched him carefully pick out the dryer high ground and endured the extra bumpiness when he chose rocky sections of the road for the traction it provided.

All in all, I felt relatively safe.

Until we reached the base of my mountain.

The incline prevented great speed but it also meant more water rushing down our path. The road was thick with mud, crossed by several log “bridges” that the driver literally walked us over.

I held on tight to my handholds and even offered to disembark once when we got caught in a particularly deep mudhole.

My head was throbbing from the pressure of my helmet, my hands were curled in tight fists from holding on for nearly two hours, and my lower back was tense from the constant jarring as we’d bounced over rocks. But at long last we reached the grounds of my school and the base of the path to my compound.

I climbed off the bike and paid, taking the driver’s name and number. I didn’t anticipate making that trek on a moto anytime soon but if I did, he was certainly a driver I now felt I could trust.

I was too sore to even care about my helmet-mussed hair as I slowly made my way up the path to my house that rivals the set of an Indiana Jones movie.

When at last I’d unlocked the door to my house, I collapsed on my couch. I was rain and mud streaked, sore and tired. But for the first time, I’d traveled in Rwanda entirely on my own and survived.