Rubber chickens aiding a lonely transition into Rwanda

You can never have too many African bus stories.

Another African Bus...

I board the bus to Rwanda rather satisfied with myself. I'm catching the 1AM overnight bus from Kampala to Kigali after having splurged a whole extra 10,000 shillings (equivalent to about 6USD, but that means a night in dorm housing in Africa as well) for the 1AM bus as opposed to paying just 20,000 shillings for the 3AM bus. I even booked early on in the day so I was sitting in Seat 7, second row opposite the driver - Score! (you know you've been in Africa for too long when reserved seating excites you.) Since the bus runs overnight and in theory takes 8 hours, I should arrive in Kigali, alone, around 9AM and have a full day ahead of me while at the same time saving on a night's accomodation.

You get used to a lot of things in Africa after some time here. When a whole town's power goes off at 3PM and doesn't come back on til the next morning... well shit happens. When a procedure that would take 10 minutes in the US takes 4 hours (be it documentation, a service, a wait, a bus ride)... well, shit happens! When your transport be it motorbike or minibus stops en route having run out of gas... well, shit happens. What I haven't gotten used to still however, is the fact that people don't respect space or order here. Thus I get totally steamrolled while trying to board the bus, and of course you guys can just imagine me the little wide-eyed Asian girl that I am, holding my elbows in out of the way in a surging crowd of Africans, trying not to touch people and raising a hand every now and then stuttering, "Excuse me?" It's similar to what happens in Asia, but for some reason in Africa I don't feel like I can play the Western person card to bowl through even though perhaps I still totally can. I don't know, I can't help but worry that the African will hit me. Still something I haven't mastered.

I sit in my seat for awhile with high hopes of having nobody next to me. Fat chance, this is Africa and if anything the buses are ALWAYS overfilled. As suspected soon a rather large man wearing glasses and a sweater stops next to me and points towards the window. He mutters something in French. French!! That language I haven't heard in two months for which I have basically purged all but greetings from my memory. My eyes light up and I am reminded that the official language of Rwanda is French and I get excited at the prospect of putting my forgotten French to use. He sits down and my entire body is squished to the right against my armrest in the aisle. He sure didn't look this big when he was standing there! Not only are we touching but my left arm needs to be completely saddled behind his right shoulderblade for us to fit. No worries, we start chatting in French and I am happy again. At least he doesn't smell.

He is cool until I feel a hand wrapped around my left knee, and I mean a hand that's not my own. Uh, what does he think he's doing? I pretend like I don't feel it and we continue talking. The bus starts moving and after a few minutes he says that it will be cold and throws his jacket over my body and his. Nuh-uh mister. At this point I cut him off, no more conversation and no more direct eye contact. "Je suis fatigue, je dors." I pretend to sleep. I have about fifteen minutes of peace until I feel his entire right arm resting on my body and the hand back down on my knee. Without even thinking I (almost rudely) throw it off my leg and nervously joke, "Are you using me for an armrest or something?" He gets the hint and stops touching me, but unfortunately for the next 8 hours I still have half my body pressed up behind his, a left boob in his back, and our butt and upper thigh meat are making not-so-sweet love with every bump in the fucking road. It doesn't help that I worry that every pothole is going to shatter the ribcage I have pressed up against my metal (luckily rust-free) armrest.

After an extremely uncomfortable ride (at least this floor wasn't soaked in leaking oil) we arrive at the Rwandan border around 8am. Falling out of the bus half asleep I am immediately bombarded with "Ni hao's" and "Konnichiwa's" and there is a split second where I just want to kill everybody with a rusty spoon in the chest. The border crossing literally takes forever, at least over an hour and a half even at 8 in the morning. This is because Africans love to carry many little bags full of shit with them onto the bus to squeeze into every crevice of free space that isn't taken up by a leg or a foot underneath. And at the border, all these little bags of shit must come out, be laid orderly for checking, in the drizzling rain. I pace about while trying to avoid both my buddy on the bus and also this other African man who keeps approaching me about finding Christ in my life.

I soon resign myself to sucking on these little fruity candies while staring at a very good looking blonde boy in the Exit line. Good-Looking Blond Guy is way too pretty to be traveling Africa in a dark thermal, perfectly clean tight but loose enough surely Abercrombie cargo pants, decorative and perfectly mismatching bead necklaces, and his white iPod earphones hanging from his collar. Oh yeah, and he tosses his chin length, highlighted and shiny surfer blond tresses every so often. Had I met him in an acutal hostel I may not have spoken to him, but as he was the only visually exciting thing around at this certain point in time of misery we were pretty much in permanent eye contact as we were the only non Africans around. You know how it is, you always end up focusing on that other non-local when you see them. Alas, Good-Looking Blond Guy passes through the border and I must board Harrassment on Wheels once again to continue the ride to Kigali. The relationship was short but sweet, totally shallow but strangely fulfilling.

Another shitty hotel...

Upon arrival I check into Kigali Hotel, a small hotel up in the Muslim quarter of all places. It's been awhile, since probably Syria somewhere, since I've had to actually check into a single hotel room instead of rocking up to hostel that offered dorms. Kigali just doesn't really seem to have any backpacker places. C'est la vie, I pay a little extra and after changing from a room whose shower pipe completely broke off when I turned on the water, I settle into my little cage for the next couple nights. My room is only about twelve square meters but has three separate garbage cans, one that is entirely dedicated for condoms as clearly labeled on the bin. Yuck. I am also thrilled to find that the wet clothes I packed before leaving Kampala (I finally did my own laundry by HAND and am strangely proud of how white my clothes came out) haven't yet started smelling grody. Oh, how lonely I am here.

And eventually I eat rubber chickens

I wander about the city in the afternoon and completely conscious of the fact that I am starving, cannot find for the life of me anything appetizing to eat. I buy a bushel of sugar bananas and end up giving most of them away to Rwandan kids. The afternoon passes without incident, as long as you don't call me getting lost everywhere I go an incident. I finally find a local eatery to fill myself up with and get the African staple of chicken and rice. Only I don't think I've yet touched on food in Africa, have I?

Small African "restaurants" or more like hole-in-the-walls serve up local foods at something close to 50 cents per plate of "thing." Choices of "thing" include the likes of the following: rice, potatos, beans, cabbage, onions, fries, maybe some chicken. The cooking is typically done by hard-working African women squatting over pots and pans sitting in whatever form of fire in the ground. More often than not, the rice and maize have sand in them and you crunch your way through the meal. And I don't care what other people say, local African food is NOT tasty - it doesn't work the way Thailand or Lebanon does.

Another popular eatery in Africa is the Chapati Stand. A chapati is some mixture of both heaven and hell. The chapati itself is a large round carb, something similiar to the love-child of nan and roti. A chapati itself will run you perhaps 10 cents, but a Rolex (omelette rolled in a chapati) perhaps like 50 cents. They are both tasty and disgusting, as they dripping of oil and also usually wrapped in newspaper - the kind where the black crap comes off on your fingers. In Masindi one of the two Rolexes I had tasted of gasoline. I gave it to a bum who was all too happy to take it with the warning.

Well tonight I decide on the African hole-in-the-wall for lack of any closer option under looming storm clouds. I ask for chicken and rice, but I don't really get why I never remember that the chicken at these places have the texture of actual dried glue. Either this chicken has been dead for 2 months, or it was trained for the Poultry Olympics and has not an ounce of fat on it. And it happens every time I order the chicken, I really am like a goldfish sometimes. When my chicken comes out, whaddya know, I can't rip it and wouldn't even have a chance with a full mouth of canines. No worries though, my "waiter" is immediately at my service and is going at my chicken leg with a knife. I try not to let it bother me that his bare hands are massaging all corners of that chicken. He comes back again with like a proper meat butcher knife and goes at it using just his fingertips holding the sraps of meat on the bone. He saws away for about ten minutes and feeds me little bits of meat that he has managed to remove. I force myself to eat it even though 1) it's still ridiculously tough and 2) ... the hands thing... I silently remind myself of the popular party line that "there are children starving in Africa."

I really hope I don't get the shits tomorrow.

I was thinking today, changing countries is always sort of a big deal, that's why some people drag it on and can never seem to leave a certain capital city. I mean you've already sussed out the "good" travellers you want to know, you know the restaurants, you know the fair prices... it's all just SO EASY. Staying another night always seems like a good idea. At the same time when you arrive in a new country you know that you are about to start a whole other exciting chapter with a competely different cast of characters and a new city map to familiarize yourself with. So, I set off in Kigali totally friendless, alone, without a plan, getting ripped off once again by first few motortaxis you take in every new city.

P.S. - It's really funny - here in Africa I can't help but notice the locals in internet cafes love looking at pictures of Beyonce. Represent.

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