Rwanda

There is a school of thought that the lucky ones are those who don’t know what they’re missing. After an idyllic month spent living the life of Riley in Uganda, I couldn’t agree more. Passing over the border into Rwanda was a rude awakening and I suspect it will only get worse.

The bus ride was blissfully uneventful. I don’t know why punctures and other mechanical failures are so rampant on the West side and so conspicuously absent here, but I won’t complain. The only thing that was irksome was my seat mates. I’ve got to master the fine art of draping myself over two seats and making it look like I cannot be disturbed. The first woman was a mountain of flesh and not long after she got on the bus, they turned on some music videos (at ear-shattering decibels) and she sang along. Or maybe I should say warbled. The next guy was deodorant deficient and so fat he spilled over into my seat. For some reason he had long nails – long, gross, girlie nails, filed almost to a point. And he kept putting his hand next to my leg, as though he was too fat to prop himself up otherwise.

I got totally shafted at the border changing money. I should have received 2,500, instead I got 300 francs. The thing is, when you don’t know the exchange rate, it’s hard to know that you’re being jacked. It wasn’t until I tried to pay for my cab that I realized I wasn’t carrying 3,000, it was 300. So Ugandans suck.

I’d forgotten, or maybe repressed, the usual arrival mish-mash at the bus station, which actually wasn’t too bad. It was no Arusha and definitely nothing like Dar. Then I arrived at my hotel. I’ve gotten used to guards, dogs, open kitchens, quiet, clean bedrooms with four-poster beds and bug nets, hot water showers, DStv at the ready and a DVD player for when there’s nothing on. At Rohini’s I became accustomed to wonderfully home-cooked meals, a bedroom with a desk, a feeling of home.

This place isn’t the worst place I’ve ever stayed, but it’s certainly a step down. The narrow single bed, the cold-water showers, the toilets that flush with a bucket, the power outages, the windows above the doors that let in every kind of noise. Sigh… This whole traveling thing is tough. I’d forgotten!

The great thing is that this place is full of backpackers – and when I say full I mean there are five other people here. It’s the rainy season in Rwanda, which makes it the worst time to visit. It’s cold and clammy – my feet are frozen, in fact. But the country is really pretty breath taking. It seems to be about 100 km from north to south; that’s stunningly small compared to some of the other countries I’ve been to and absolutely miniscule compared to hulking Canada. But every square inch of land has been used and luckily for Rwandans, the country isn’t flat, but bunched up with hills, mountains and volcanoes, which increases its surface area. They’ve terraced every available space, filling it with small plots of cabbage and grass and whatever else. I read that each year the national parks seem to get smaller and smaller as more people look for arable land. (That will likely be one of the stories I tackle in the next few days.)

I had the impression that Rwanda is fairly developed, probably because guidebooks and actual people rave about the roads and infrastructure. The kids here are far worse than anything I’ve seen yet on the East side, covered in rags and mud, with scabby knees. They remind me of Mali. But Kigali itself reminds me of home (although my memory of home is getting decidedly fuzzy) with big, modern buildings. No ATMs, though, which is a major pain in the patoot.