Hello from a few minutes south of the Equator.
Since my last postcard sent from Nairobi I have been on the move:
Kampala Uganda with a brief stop in Nakuru Kenya and forays into Entebbe,
Jinja (the source of the White Nile out of Lake Victoria) and Ggaba Beach
on the shores of Lake Victoria; next to Fort Portal for an adventurous
couple days; then down to Mbarara for a surprising stay in an affordable
luxury motel smack dab in the middle of the real Africa; and finally to
Kigali Rwanda where I discovered another calm pool of civilization surrounded by
raging wild Africa.
As I walk 3-6 hours everyday, I go a lot of places ordinary tourists
ignore and walk in neighborhoods where the residents rarely see a mzungu
(white person). People, especially children are constantly yelling "mzungu!
Hi!" or the French equivalent here in Rwanda. I imagine I am often
the day's main entertainment for some of the startled folks I encounter. I
know my failure to consult guidebooks more consistently means I miss many
of the attractions, which bring most tourists to Africa. But, in my case
the serendipity more than makes up for whatever I don't see. Walking so
much means I have had to deal with blisters... sometimes blisters on
blisters! Eventually I remembered the trick of wearing two pair of socks
and that has eliminated the painful blisters, though I now have calluses
one might expect to find on kids running barefoot all the time.
On the crowded streets in the cities I constantly hear people muttering
"mzungu" as I pass by and staring. When I stare back I see
startled expressions until I break a smile or say "good morning"
myself.
Away from major cities people are friendly, curious and generally polite.
Immersed as I am in this dark sea of humanity, I sometimes feel a bit
black myself. On one occasion I looked at my white hands surprised that
they were not just like everybody else's. At night I lose much of my
whiteness and am able to assume a greater degree of anonymity as the
crowded streets are rarely well lighted. The few resentful or fearful
faces I see, quickly melt into wide smiles in response to my even feeble
friendly overtures. The helpfulness of some people is overwhelming, many
going far out of their way to assist me in finding the way to some obscure
destination. On more than one occasion good people have scolded hustlers
or beggars who had been harassing me.
On the bus from Mbarara I meet Richard who turns out to be a marvelous
source of information about the area and people. On arrival in Kigali (pronounced Chi-golly) he arranges for a cab to
take the both of us into town and drops me at the best (most expensive)
hotel in town. On the way he points out the fact that our driver is a
Tutsi and then he and the driver explain the ethnic differences between
Tutsis and Hutus. "Tutsis have long noses, more delicate bodies, and
are invariably well educated. Hutus have short noses with big nostrils,
often are short and stocky... some are still savages." They seem to
find this humorous.
Speaking to the Sales manager of the Milecolline Hotel I am unable to
finesse a rate reduction from the rack rate of $145 and ask for other
hotel recommendations. She directs me to the Hotel Okopi, which turns out
to be a "rent by the hour" establishment. I take it anyway
thinking I can handle anything for just one night and head out to
investigate other hotel possibilities.
The Umubano is part of the Novotel French chain and the Manager offers
me an Embassy rate of $93, so I take it and we agree I will come the next
day. He even arranges to get me a courtesy $50 cash advance on my credit
card through the hotel! What a guy. As I have not eaten anything all day
since breakfast except two chocolate bars and a bottle of water, I am
delighted to take dinner in the hotel's fine French restaurant.
The next day I can't wait to get out of the rattrap hotel I'd gotten
myself stuck in. The only light in the room flickered all evening until it
finally went out all together. While the room had no chair or any place to
put bags or hang clothes, most of the guests no doubt appreciated the
complimentary package of four condoms conspicuously available on the tiny
nightstand.
Checking into the Umubano is heaven for someone leaving hell! After a
welcome shower and a banquet breakfast I went off to explore the town and
find an Internet cafe. This one is among the best I've used on my entire
trip: good connectivity and 20 inch screens! The LAN seems to be
truncating messages and I have not been able to confirm that my postcards
have been accepted and delivered to anyone. So, I'll try again next time I
find another Internet access point.
Transportation to the south seems to be a problem, but I now know how
to get to the Tanzania border and that's a start. Finding the Nyabugogo
mini-bus park where long distance vans start their trips challenged my
endurance as I walked for three hours before finally finding it. The park
itself is confusion personified. Every driver and his
"conductor" wants you to think he goes wherever you want to go.
While French is the official language, a majority of the people speak what
they think is English, though I rarely understand what they are trying to
tell me on the first attempt. Eventually, enough people point to the same one area
in the square block size lot and I am able to find several vans waiting
to fill for the trip to Rusumo at the Tanzania border. So, this is where I
must come to tomorrow when I will leave for Tanzania.
Now almost out of dollars and cash of any kind I set out to find some
way of getting money out of my credit card. Only one bank has the
capability and the process is convoluted as they process international
funds transfers through a Belgium Francs account. The Rwanda Francs I get
will need to be converted into U.S. dollars on the street and at the
border into Tanzanian Shillings, but at least I am no longer a pauper.
Ensconced in my luxury hotel room in Kigali Rwanda, wild Africa
seems eons and dimensions away from my immediate reality. But, not more
than ten minutes from here people scrape a living out of mud brick houses
and piles of bananas. Hutus and Tutsis live harmoniously side-by-side for
the most part, but ancient hostilities and suspicions always bubble near
the surface. This fact I soon had confirmed, as I made ready to cross into
Tanzania where refugee camps still hold hundreds of thousands of displaced
people from Rwanda and Burundi.
When the time came to leave my comfortable womb and head out into the
scary world, my first challenge took me back to the Nyabugogo matatu park. As I had
checked out the scene yesterday I knew the drill and quickly found
the cluster of mini-vans cued up to cram passenger into their bowels for
the trip to Rusumo at the Tanzanian border. Wanting the two front seats I knew I
needed to find the first van back in the line, which had not yet started
to board passengers. This I did without too much trouble, as the
conductors are delighted to find someone (usually a mzungu) willing to pay
double for the privilege of giving the driver plenty of elbowroom for
shifting gears.
Eventually, the two vans ahead of us filled to over-flowing and left.
Our driver started his engine to move to the head of the cue and I
prepared to buckle my seat belt only to find the anchor end had been cut!
Showing the driver the problem, I got out to board the next vehicle back
in line.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose as my new vehicle moved into the next-up
position. As the crowd of shouting drivers, conductors, touts and lot
managers grew and the heat of the arguments boiled into bedlam I could
hear every outburst emphasizing one word: "mzungu." Because I
had changed vans someone had decided the one I selected should be next to
fill up and leave. At one point, guys connected with a rival van occupied
most of the seats in our van so actual passengers could not take seats. No
one ever actually threatened me directly, but there could be little doubt
that my provocative actions had precipitated the fracas.
Eventually, one of the lot managers made an executive decision that we
would go next and convinced the other van drivers, conductors and touts to
back off. As this farce had taken nearly a quarter hour to play itself
out, our van immediately filled and we were off.
With my uncrowded two front seats and unimpeded views of the passing
landscape, I had a totally enjoyable tour of eastern Rwanda. Police
stopped the driver twice to politely check his papers and near the border all
traffic stopped in some sort of major roadblock closure. Our driver had a
couple passengers get out of the van and talked his way through to a
detour. We made it to the border in about three and a half hours.
The second I stepped out of the van a half dozen moneychangers
clustered around me offering their services. After asking several for
their best exchange rates, I traded a little less than a hundred dollars
worth of Rwandan Francs for 70,000 Tanzanian Shillings and proceeded on to
the exit formalities. Rwanda passport control took minutes, but the guard
decided he must inspect every layer in my tightly packed bag... and with
no place clean to spread out the array. Eventually satisfied with my
juggled exhibits, he let me pass through and I walked out on the 50 meter
long bridge across the Kagera river stopping to admire the Rusumo Falls
not a hundred meters from the bridge which marks the border.
I don't know when I'll next be near any technology, so my postcards
might stop again for a while as there seems to be nothing that looks like
civilization for quite some distance beyond Kigali toward Tanzania, other than the
various UN related relief agencies dealing with the hoards of refugees
around the border. I'll write when I can, if I don't run into some human meat
eaters in one of the refugee camps or a rebel group looking for a white
haired hostage.
Peace,
Fred Bellomy 30 May 2001
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