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Mwanza – Kigali
Before going any further, I should go back for a moment to the previous stage. While rereading my notes, I realized I had forgotten a rather amusing episode from the train journey.
Here it is.
We were still travelling in the third-class carriages. Well… I was, anyway, since Ben, Caro and I had not managed to find seats in the same wagon. Like most of the passengers, I was sleeping on the floor.
We were literally piled on top of each other. A man’s thigh served as my pillow, and in turn I was a pillow for three or four other people. The train windows were open, and the luggage — assorted bags, bunches of bananas and other provisions — was hanging from the horizontal bars normally used by standing passengers to hold on.
Suddenly several travelers got up at the same time and shut the windows.
A few minutes later they opened them again.
I didn’t understand at first.
But the same thing happened again a little later. This time I managed to see what was going on.
Monkeys were literally attacking the train. From the roof they stretched their long arms through the windows, trying to grab whatever they could get hold of.
Mwanza – Ngara
To reach Rwanda, the first step is to get to Ngara, not far from the border.
The bus leaves at five in the morning.
I hate getting up early.
The official fare is 10,000 shillings, but I manage to negotiate my ticket down to 8,000. After sixteen months in Africa, I have picked up a few basic skills in the art of bargaining.
The journey between Mwanza and Ngara is about 360 kilometers, which means a good ten hours on the road.
The bus looks like most buses in this part of Africa: tired, noisy, dented… but it runs.
I am almost disappointed: there is no goat on board. Instead, my neighbor is holding a magnificent rooster on her lap.
As far as I can tell, that rooster and I were probably the only passengers truly worried about the way the driver was handling the bus.
Despite that, the journey passes without incident. Dusty as always, but quiet enough.
Once in Ngara, I treat myself to a gargantuan meal for the equivalent of four francs, Coke included, and then to a luxurious suite in the local “palace” for ten francs.
And I sleep.
Ngara – Rusumo
The next morning, after a three-franc breakfast, I go looking for a taxi to Rusumo, the border post.
The distance is modest: twenty-six kilometers.
We agree on 3,000 shillings.
At 9:30 a.m. I climb in.
And we wait.
Because here a taxi only leaves when it is full.
Profit comes first.
At 10:15 we are finally ready: three passengers in the front, four in the back.
The taxi starts… then stops a few kilometers later to drop off a passenger.
A heated discussion follows: they cannot agree on the price.
Twenty minutes later we leave again.
In the next village, a new surprise: the driver calmly announces that he is not going any farther. He has found customers for the return trip — more profitable.
I lose my temper and get out without paying.
I go and chat with the local policemen while waiting for another taxi.
In Tanzania, policemen all seem to come from the same mold:
one big bruiser and one short chubby one.
The Taxi Without Brakes
Another taxi finally arrives.
Destination Rusumo: 2,000 shillings.
We set off.
Ten minutes later an ominous noise comes from the back.
Stop.
Rear wheel.
The tires are completely bald — but that is only a detail. Mine were so worn that when I replaced them in Luanda they were thinner than the inner tube.
The real problem appears once the wheel is removed: the sidewall of the tire is torn for a good fifteen centimeters.
And the drum brakes are in pieces.
The driver studies the parts for a few seconds.
Then makes a radical decision.
He removes everything.
Yes.
The taxi continues without rear brakes.
Inside, I silently pray that the front ones still work.
At the next stop we run into the policemen again.
One big bruiser and one small chubby one.
When I told you they all look the same…
Well, this time they actually are the same ones.
The policeman recognizes me.
We laugh for two minutes.
The taxi drives off… and stops again fifty meters later.
This time the breakdown is final.
I give the driver 500 shillings. The breakdown is not his fault.
An Even Fuller Taxi
Now I have to find a third taxi to continue.
I quickly find one, but again we must wait until it is full before leaving.
The fare this time is 1,500 shillings.
Half an hour later the taxi is finally full: three people in the front, four in the back and two children.
Just as we are about to leave, more passengers arrive.
Everyone squeezes in.
Four people in the front, five in the back, plus the two children — and of course the luggage on the roof.
Eleven people in total.
Next to me sits a soldier holding a magnificent submachine gun between his knees.
As for me, I am sitting on the handbrake.
Road to the Border
This time we finally set off for good.
Along the road I notice a man in an immaculate suit and tie… calmly driving his tractor.
A little farther on, a woman walks along the roadside talking on a mobile phone.
The contrast is striking.
At the first police checkpoint the driver fills in a form. The soldier signs it.
Does he have an official role? Is he there to protect us?
We are in a border region.
Who knows.
Farther along we see two trucks lying in the ditch.
No injuries.
But two more passengers climb into the trunk.
We are now thirteen people inside a station-wagon Renault 21.
Rusumo
It is a little after 1 p.m. when I reach Rusumo.
Four hours of bush taxi to travel 26 kilometers.
The border crossing is done on foot.
On the Tanzanian side, the customs officer wants to inspect my luggage. I show him my bag of clothes.
The state of my belongings seems to discourage him.
He eyes my other bag — cameras, MiniDisc player…
But I talk his ear off about my journey — 44,000 kilometers, 14 months, 22 countries crossed — until he finally gives up searching.
Between Tanzania and Rwanda, a river rushes down the mountain.
Between the two border posts: a bridge.
I suddenly have a flashback.
I am sure I saw this bridge ten years earlier on television, sitting comfortably on my couch.
Back then, the cameraman moved slowly toward the parapet and pointed his lens down into the torrent below.
At that time, the river was carrying hundreds of bodies.
Today there is only water.
But the feeling is strange.
As if I were entering a forbidden land.
Rwanda – Toward Kigali
On the Rwandan side, a minibus driver asks 5,000 Rwandan francs (about 10 dollars) to take me to Kigali.
We negotiate.
I accept 3,000.
My old friend Alain — a legendary complainer — would have kept negotiating.
And he would have been right.
The real price, as I later learned, is 2,000.
Along the road I notice schoolgirls dressed entirely in blue, and men wearing pink uniforms. They are cutting the grass along the roadside.
Later I learn they are prisoners — mostly former genocidaires — assigned to public works under the supervision of guards.
Otherwise, Rwanda does not look very different from the rest of Africa.
Perhaps simply a little less exuberant.
Four hours later we reach Kigali.
The Last Kilometers
I still need to reach the city center.
But I am tired of endless stops.
This time I decide to take a private taxi.
The first driver asks 1,000 francs.
I laugh in his face.
You always have to laugh in situations like that.
“WHAT? 1,000 FRANCS?! HA HA HA!”
Second taxi.
2,000 francs.
I laugh even louder.
Third taxi.
2,000 again.
More laughter.
He drops to 1,000.
I turn to the motorcycle taxis.
The first one signals his price with his hands: a closed fist plus three fingers.
800 francs.
I laugh again.
But I must admit I am getting tired.
Within seconds ten motorcycles surround me.
One of them shouts:
“300 francs!”
I accept.
I AM IN KIGALI.
Stage Summary
10 hours by bus → 360 km
4 hours by shared taxis → 26 km
4 hours by minibus → 160 km
20 minutes by motorcycle → 2–3 km
(To be continued…)
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