So I finally go and catch malaria

I’m back in Rwanda, on my own and wonder whether this will lead to maybe a different perception. The dirt finishes at the border and I pass down the smooth asphalt road. I’ve crossed over to cycling on the right and tell myself that it’s pretty important thing to remember.

The different perception is working, all I can see is the word “Genocide” written on every sign, board and poster. It seems that every five hundred meters there’s a sign for a church, there all written in French and I don’t understand it, but pick out the words genocide and reconciliation. I lot of the massacres during the genocide took place in churches. People fled to church’s hoping for safety. In some cases ministers and priests opened the door to the Interahamwe and thousands were left dead. The churches role in the genocide is something hotly debated in Rwanda. One catholic priest is serving a 15 year prison sentence. An article I read in the paper suggests that more heads of the church should stand trail. The churches I’m passing I assume would be signs of mass slaughter, but then again, where in this country isn’t a sign of mass slaughter.

I push down the road. I see two kids aimlessly throwing stones at things. I wonder if I will be there next target. I pass and say bonjour and then as I’m ten meters away a stone comes rattling past. The people out here are curious and I’m hit with a multitude of eyes from the hundreds of people who line the road and surrounding fields. Rwanda has the highest density population in all of Africa. Nearly nine million people squashed into a country roughly one hundred miles long as only slightly wider. Everywhere I look I can see people. Women working in the field’s, men sitting under trees and kids playing in the road. There are people everywhere.

I stop at a small settlement along the road. It’s very small and unlike Uganda where there’d be a fair amount of goods on offer there’s very little. I head to a small hut which appears to be selling food and it seems the town heads over to stare at me. There’s a multitude of teenage boys staring at me. One pulls out a small piece of rock. “Coltan” he says. If this stuff really is more valuable than gold, his lump would be worth a fair bit. I pass on the chance to buy it off him but he hassles me some more to purchase it. The waiter comes out and shoo’s my crowd away. I eat my two brochettes and get back on the road.

The rolling hills, patch work scenery and thirty nine shades of green are a pleasure to pass through. The villages seem is some ways more orderly then of Uganda. Rectangular mud huts have colonial style titled roofs, occasionally even glass windows. People paint traditional patterns on the outside of there homes and grow plants around their gardens. It’s nice to see that even within all the poverty the people still appreciate the artistic value of life.

I pass groups of prisoners working on the side of the road. They wear pink uniforms which represent a conviction for participation in the genocide. An armed guard will watch over a small group. I pass only a matter of meters from them. I can’t look them in the face and find it hard to look at them at all. It’s just unimaginable what these people did, and it feels very peculiar to pass them on the street. The media, the international community, everybody talks about forgiveness. But I don’t understand how people could forgive? How can they even face seeing the men in pink uniforms each day? None of it makes sense. It’s just too unimaginable.

I arrive in Ruhenguri surprised by is modernity. I find a hotel for US$10 and leave to find another place, but the other cheap option is still US$10. I don’t understand why that in such a poor country hotels are so expensive. Unfortunately, unlike Uganda, where every other building is a cheap hotel, Rwanda has a huge shortage of them. I’m forced to pay $10 but at least look forward to a hot shower. But then I have to head off to the reception to inquire why the water coming out of both taps is cold. I guy goes to check. He’s come back and tells me to give it thirty minutes. He says it in French, which I’m unsure about, but I translate it to “I’d give it at least three hours mate as the hot water boiler wasn’t turned on and it takes bloody ages to heat up again, and that’s only if we don’t have a power cut and then your buggered as there won’t be any hot water, but you’ll still have to pay your ten dollars for the room”. I go for a walk. The place is surrounded by volcanoes, it’s a beautiful feeling walking down the main street constantly looking up at the surrounding peaks. I buy a paper and go and have a beer. There’s two articles’ in the paper about the genocide. Thirteen years later and every newspaper I buy during my whole stay in Rwanda has at least two or three stories about the events. I drink my beer, read my paper and look up at the volcanoes and wonder how a country can ever get over those types of events.

I head out of town early the next morning. The sky’s so grey its almost black, but I see a lighter colour in the distance so will have to take my chances with the rain. It’s the wet season so getting wet will probably be a realistic part of the journey. I stop at a bike fix it man under a tree on the outskirts of town. As soon as I stop there’s a huge crowd around me. I not used to it. I’m used to attention and staring but it’s been a while since I’d experienced twenty or so people crowded all around me. I ask to borrow a spanner to tighten my crank which frustratingly has become lose. Nobody really helps me but I manage to get a spanner from the mechanic and tighten my crank. One guy is speaking English and telling me to give the mechanic money. Even borrowing a spanner costs cash in Africa but I don’t mind as I hand over one hundred francs (10p). The mechanic seems more than happy with this. “No give him five hundred and give me five hundred for helping you” the guy says. The crowd is too close to me, its too early I the morning and the crowd is making me far too claustrophobic. “But you haven’t helped me have you mate? You didn’t even hold my fucking bike did you mate” I half shout this at him. I push through the crowd and back onto the road and cycle off. It was all a bit too much. Maybe it’s just me, but everyone was just a bit to close, a bit too intense and made me a bit too claustrophobic. I hadn’t experienced this at all when I passed through on the bus. The people in the towns were, if anything, quite reserved, quite distant. Maybe the countryside is different? I push on down the road hoping for it to be less hectic than that.

Luckily the countryside is less hectic, still teeming with people, still full of shouting children, but as the thirty nine shades of green merge in and out of the hills, then as the hills merge into mountains there’s a friendly feeling in the air. People stare and are often reversed. They often won’t make the first move as I approach, but once I smile and say hi, people’s faces light up. There something in there approach, it seems genuine and sincere. There seems to be something more honest about it than in some other countries. It’s hard to explain why, and maybe I just make it up in my head, but people give me this “Thank you for coming here” look.

The kids are fond of running along with me; I head up one hill with a group of at least fifteen kids. They’re nice and just run along without any demands. Adults see this and smile and wave. I’m enjoying the day. The scenery is stunningly beautiful, the people are nice and the sun in shining. I start to descend, its steep and I’m going fast. I ring my bell vigorously to clear the road of people as I speed through village after village. I past a refugee camp and instantly tears fill up eyes. It’s such a powerful sight. The huge white tents blazoned with UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) are something you see on TV screen not in real life. All the kids in the camp spot me and are screaming mzungu and are waving through the fence. I’m amazed at my sudden emotional state; it is as if something had been pushed straight through my heart. I quickly push my emotions aside as the road drops again continuing my 35mph descent. The road pushes through some forest and comes out leaving magnificent views over the area. I can easily see Goma and all the surrounding mountains in the Congo. My first view of Mount Nyiragongo - the volcano which’s lava had covered Goma. I can see the lake clearly and my destination of Gisenyi. The descent goes on and on, more vigorous ringing of the bell and 40pmh speeds and I arrive in Gisenyi. The descent was actually a whopping eighteen miles long. It was truly breathtaking but leaves me with the dread that one way or another I’ll have a climb equally as long.

I’m having dinner that night with some folk I’d met in Uganda. It’s nice to bump into friendly faces and quite a rarity. Everybody I meet travels so much quicker than me I rarely meet people again on the road. We have a few beers and there all planning to go to Goma tomorrow. They’re planning a Saturday night out dancing, and then climbing the volcano on Sunday. It’s reopened since my visit here with Jess almost two months ago. I’m invited and tempted but I was supposed to do that with Jess. We were supposed to go out dancing and climbing volcanos in the Congo. I really like the company of these people but just feel like I might get depressed. I’m still not a hundred percent sure whether I should have come to this town; I’d feared it might bring back happy memories of being here with Jess but that that would just get me down.

I wake the next morning feeling groggy. I have no where near enough energy to cycle and decide on another day here. I walk with the others to the Congo border, but then they cross and I’m on my own. I head to the beach with two incredibly boring Germans I’d met the night previous. Why do I think that any company is better than none? It simple isn’t. I make my excuses and leave after an hour or so. I head down to the port to see if I could catch I boat down the lake. Last time I was here me and Jess organised a boat without even wanting one, the only reason we didn’t take it was that it left at 4am. But this time I’m not having any luck. Last time it was a brewery boat we were going to catch, the security guard at the factory gates had organised it with one swift call on his radio. But this time the security guards tell me no boats go to Kibuye and shrugs me off. Life is just easier as a couple, people like you more. As a single man people just think you’re weird. They don’t understand why you’re alone, and sometimes like today, neither do I.

I find a different boat but when it comes to when it’s actually leaving and its all yes and then no and then yes and then no and then a lot of maybes. So I give up and go and have lunch in a small restaurant on the side of the lake. I’m disappointed about the boat. Apart from the beauty of the journey itself it would also stop me having to cycle the 130km rough steep road to Kibuye. I start to get down; it seems the smallest pieces of disappointment can easily upset me. I have a beer with my lunch and then another, and then another. I decide on the numb my emotions theory of happiness. I pay up and catch the bus back into town. I’m sitting on the bus staring out of the window, half pissed, half happy, half sad. I’m pissed off with myself. I’ve come to a town I knew would depress me but I still came here even though I knew what would happen. Don’t I ever learn from my mistakes?

I get off the bus and decide on another beer somewhere where I can watch the sunset over the lake. Everywhere is shut as it’s off season but the one and only posh hotel is open. I know it’s going to be stupidly expensive but figure it can’t be more than a beer at home. I wonder in and find a table next to the pool over looking the beach and the lake. I order a beer and watch the as the sunsets - its beautiful. I order another beer, now oblivious to the price. I’m reflecting that things can’t really be that bad, when then boring Germans walk in and take a table right next to mine. Oh fuck! They’ve caught me. I’m sitting in a posh hotel on my own, pissed out of my mind. They invite me over, I’d decline if they were a few tables away, but I can’t sit here alone with them two meters away. I pull my chair over. A waiter brings them fancy cocktail looking drinks. I ask what they are. Mixed fruit juice. Shit, that means they are totally sober and I have no way at all of covering up my inebriated state. I skull my beer, make my excuses and leave. They must be thinking, “What a sad, lonely, pathetic, drunken weirdo”. And they wouldn’t be far wrong.

I feel like shit the next day and am in no way able to leave. I don’t want to see the Germans as I’m too embarrassed, so I sneak out for breakfast and then sit in the café all morning drinking tea. I know there are leaving at lunch time, so by one o’clock I think its safe enough to head down to the beach. I bump back into Elizabeth and Ben, there both back from the Congo, there had a great night out but passed on the volcano due to there own inebriated states. I’m kind of glad they didn’t climb the volcano, I’d be too jealous if they had of done. We have dinner and I’m complaining about the lack of boats and how hard the road will be at 130km of steep dirt track. They’re both looking at me like “It’s your idea to cycle so don’t complain about it” Elizabeth then says “Well why don’t you catch the bus then?”

Its 6am and I’m at the bus station. The bus finally arrives at 7.30am and there’s small riot to get on. The bus conductor had locked everyone off the bus but then he comes and helps me put Harvey in the back and allows me to board the bus. First I think it’s because I have a bike but then I realise it’s because I’m a mzungu. Now I feel bad, there’s a small riot going on outside and I’m sitting in the bus alone. Next it’s the women and children to board, but still the bus is almost completely empty and the riot continues. The pushing and shoving is insane, people fall over and have to be helped back up. An hour later and the bus is totally packed. I don’t understand why they didn’t just let everybody on in the first place, as everyone is now aboard anyway. We start to move, its 8.30am and I was told the bus left at 6am. We drive one kilometre and everybody is ordered to leave the bus. Then everyone’s ticket is checked getting back on. It seems like a completed procedure just to get on a bus. We drive off leaving a dozen or so ticket less passengers outside.

I’m totally squashed up against the window as there’s three of us sitting on a seat designed for two. The road is in a bad shape and I estimate the initial climb out of Gisinyi to be at least twenty km’s long. I’ll glad I’m on the bus. The guy sitting on the outside of my seat starts to chat. He’s funny and constantly cracks jokes at which everyone at the bus laughs. I’m guessing these jokes are at my expense as I keep hearing the word mzungu. He asks if I’m married and is pleased at my response.
“I have sister, very, very beautiful. Very nice girl. Make excellent wife”
I tell him I’m ok, but then he goes onto dowries.
“But she cost a few cows, in fact as you are mzungu, she cost many cows”
“How many?” I ask
“For mzungu?” He’s thinking “Ten cows”
“And how much does I cow cost” He tells me it’s about $100.
“That’s a lot of money”
“Yes, but my sister is very beautiful, very beautiful” I pass on the offer.
“Do you have sister?”
He gets very excited when he finds out I do and that she’s single.
“I will buy her lots of clothes and nice shoe’s”
I’m wondering how much my dear sister is worth when he says.
“Now I sleep” He then dumps his bag on the guy sitting in the middle of us, leans across the middle guy and sticks his elbow into my crotch, then amazingly instantly falls asleep. Maybe I won’t recommend him for my sister.

I arrive in Kibuye and head to a guest house which the Lonely Planet says has loads of cheap dorms. I stayed here before with Jess and would prefer to stay elsewhere but there’s only one other hotel in town and its way to expensive. I arrive at the guesthouse only to find there are no dorms, nor ever have been. Every time I use a LP recommendation it’s incorrect. I actually wonder if they actually go to these places. The cheapest rooms are US$16 a night. I have no choice so I pay the cash and head to the room. As soon as I walk in I don’t want to be there. Me and Jess stayed in exactly the same room. All I’m thinking is “I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, over and over”. I decide against drowning my sorrows and just have dinner and then lie in bed reading.

I’m up early and trying to munch down a plate of makote for breakfast. Makote is the un-sweet banana Ugandans and Rwandans are so fond off. I on the other hand am not. I’m telling myself that it’s pure carbohydrate so good for the cycling, but it’s still not going down any easier. I find a piece of something rubbery in the makote, it’s in the shape and size of a pasta tube but has the texture of an unusual mushroom. But it’s not a mushroom is it; it’s a piece of intestine.

The makote (and intestine) worked and I’m making good progress on the steep but smooth road to Gitarama. Kids are running along with me, but there nice and smiley and have unbelievable stamina. I think they would give up but they don’t. One kid runs two and a half miles along side me and even keeps up when the road descents a little and I manage fifteen miles an hour. I pass I school with the kids coming out. They join the other ten kids running along and then suddenly there’s about fifty kids all running behind me. This really is a bit too much, but luckily most give me straight away, just leaving the ten or so hardcore runners from the start. I finally shake my kids off as the descent starts to wind through the mountains. The lake can be seen over the patch work scenery and again the thirty nine shades of green merge into the mountains, through the hills and beyond. It’s a magnificent place and the sadness of the last few days has disappeared. I love being out here, in the mountains with the greenery around me - it lifts my spirits and dissolves my worries. I sing out loud part of an Ed Harcourt song. “I’ll taste the darker stuff to find some lasting truth”.

I stop for something to eat in a small one street place. There’s very little on offer at all, but I find someone grilling brochettes and order a couple. The town has come over to see me, but the crowd’s eyes don’t bother me. Its funny how simple curiosity can sometimes infuriate and other times appear friendly. I’m not that interesting and people wonder off after a while. I munch down my brochettes and think about the place. I’d seen a big genocide memorial sign as I headed into the village. Memorials are dotted all over the countryside - often a small plaque, a cross, and a large grave. This sign is more official and I’m assuming that would mean this was the cite of a larger massacre. I think about visiting the memorial but then decide against it. I’m not sure if I really want to see it but more than that I also I don’t want the local people to see me going to it. It feels like I’d be reminding them of the genocide - as if they can really forget it. It’s a weird thought which I’m confused about. Maybe I’m embarrassed. It all just seems too much - I just can’t understand that in this quiet little village such a think could ever have happened.

I push on and arrive in Gitarama. I pay a boda boda driver to guide me to a hotel as my own search has been useless. He finds me a cheap place and I’m greeted by the couple who work there. They can’t keep there hands off each other which is slightly embarrassing for me and incredibly unusual for them. Physical contact between couples normally goes on behind closed doors. I have a shower and when I’m heading out bump into the receptionist again. His girlfriend has amazingly managed to let go of him. He’s trying to talk to me but his English is limited and he’s struggling with his words. I give him an encouraging nod, and then he comes out with;
“Err, err, how do I say, err err. Would like someone to sleep with you?”
Oh, that’s what he wanted to say. I tell him I’m ok and head out for dinner.

The next day’s going well as I head out of town, the smell of eucalyptus trees that line the road hangs heavily in the air. The mountains are becoming less and less and the climbs less demanding. I’m having a good day, once I arrive in Butare I’m only a day away from Burundi and Bujumbura the capital. I knew Elizabeth and Ben would be there and it would fun to have some company. I’d read that Bujumbura was a happening vibrant city with good nightlife, nice food and even a beach. The day passes quickly and joyfully and I arrive in Butare and find somewhere to stay. Its US$10 again but I’m used to the price now so it doesn’t seem so bad.

I’m starting to feel a little run down as if I’m getting a cold and go on the “Starve a flu, feed a cold” principle and go and have a really good meal. I’d felt fine all day and easily managed fifty miles but I’m feeling worse and worse as the minutes where on. By eight O’clock I’m in bed with a fever. I’m freezing cold even though I’m fully clothed and have two thick blankets on top of me. I’m a bit worried this is the first sign of having malaria. I take some paracetamol to help me sleep and drift off.

I awake the following morning feeling worse. I’m lying in bed barely able to move. I’m thinking I need to get malaria test, but don’t seem to be able to will my body out of bed. It takes a full two hours to actually drag myself up. I stagger outside and flag down a boda boda. “Clinic, doctor” I say. I hope he understands. He starts to speak, but then looks at me and realises how sick I am, so we drive. He takes me to the university hospital. It looks good and not the horrific third world hospital I was dreading. I stagger to the window and ask to see a doctor and tell them I need a malaria test. The guys really helpful and tells me to sit down. He comes round from behind the glass, calls a porter over and I sit in a wheelchair being pushed through the hospital.

The lawns are manicured and the place is spotless. I hope it’s not all just for show. I’m wheeled to a room and told lie down on the bed. Its all pretty good looking and I can see a “How to treat Malaria” poster on the wall. A doctor comes in and starts to talk to me in French. I tell him I don’t speak French, so he swaps into English. His English isn’t so great though and he asks me several times if I can speak French. It’s almost like he didn’t believe me the first time. Luckily he gets a doctor who speaks better English. The doctors nice and asks all the usual questions. He takes his time though and walks out a few times before coming back in and finishing the questioning. He decides on a malaria test, and a nurse is called who promptly jabs my finger with a needle and drips the blood onto a slide. I’m a bit concerned though, nobody has taken my temperature, felt my glands, looked into my eyes and ears. Aren’t those the things doctors normally do? He asks me if I’m alone and I say I am. The doctor then tells me that the lab the blood sample has to go to is about three hundred meters away. I then realise it’s my responsibility to take it there. I can barely sit up, let alone walk. He walks out and I lie back down and go to sleep. He comes back a while later and takes my temperature. It’s 39.5C. I’m not hundred percent sure but that sounds pretty bloody high to me. It tells me he’ll give me an injection to reduce the temperature and has sorted someone out to take my blood sample to the lab. A nurse comes back with a tray of stuff. Everyone at home tells you that they reuse all the needles in third world hospitals and you must take your own. I don’t have my own, so I can’t, but I watch as the nurse pulls everything out of plastic wrappers. It looks pretty good to me and anyhow, I have no choice. It’s in the arse so I pull down my pants and the nurse sticks the needle in.
“AAAARRRRRGGGGGG”
It’s a shit load more painful than I imagined it would be. The pain lasts after the needle has been pulled out and it seems to be making its way throughout my body. I curl up in pain. Luckily I soon fall asleep.

A while later I’m being wheeled to a bed to wait for my test results. I’m given my own private room and fall sleep instantly on the bed. An hour or two later I’m up. The injection must have worked as I feel a thousand times better. My room has a small balcony with beautiful views over the surrounding countryside. I’m wondering whether I’ll have to stay in hospital and thinking it wouldn’t be such a bad thing as this room is a lot nicer than my hotel. I wander down the corridor looking for the toilet, a nurse spots me and tells me its back in my room. I head back and find that the door in corner of my room actually leads into an on suite bathroom. Yep, much nicer than my hotel.

I’m back sleeping for an hour or so when the doctor comes back and tells me the results of my tests and that the malaria test was negative. Phew I think. He then tells me that even though it’s negative he will still treat me for malaria. I ask why and from what I gather he says that basically you can’t always trust the tests and that all my symptoms lead to malaria. I guess he's basically saying I have malaria. I catch a boda boda home and head straight to bed.

I feel seriously week the next day but the fever has gone and I’m not too bad. I manage to eat breakfast and am optimistic for a quick recovery. I’m hoping maybe I just have flu. But as the day continues the fever comes back. By eight o’clock I’m in bed shivering with cold, fully dresses and with two blankets over me. It’s not fun, it’s similar to having flu but worse and I now realise why the doctors treating me for malaria. An hour or two later I’m sweating like hell. It’s like being in a sauna. Sweat is just pouring from me. I take my malaria drugs and try to sleep. I wake up at 2am and I’m ok, not shivering not sweating. I guess the malaria drugs have kicked in. The following morning I wake up feeling ok. I’m really week but manage breakfast and a short walk to the shop to buy water and biscuits. But then the pattern follows as yesterday and by seven I’m freezing cold wrapped in bed. A few hours later I’m sweating like never before.

The cycle of the fever lasts for three days. The malaria drugs strew my stomach and lying in bed all day strews my head up. I’m glad the fevers finally stopped but I’m going out of my mind with boredom. I’ve read all the books I had and am just staring at the walls. The days are dragging like never before. The minutes really do feel like hours and the hours really do feel like days. I decide on a trip to the museum. It’s suppose to be one of the best in East Africa and was a present from the Belgium’s to celebrate twenty-five years of independence. I catch a motor bike down the museum. I quite excited about my excursion and my first day out of bed in almost a week. But when I arrive at the museum I realize everything is in French. There’s no English translation for anything, and without this I can’t understand any of it. Without the information it’s just some stuff behind glass. Normally I’m a bit sketchy in museums as it is. Read half the blur, get bored and then head to the next one. But today is different. I’d of read every last inch of it if I could. I also realize I’m still so sick and so weak I have to keep sitting down. I’m out of the museum within twenty minutes.

I take another day trip. It’s something I’m not sure about. But I need to occupy my time to stop my cabin fever getting worse. I head to the town of Gikongoro the site of what was once a large college and the sire of where 50,000 people were murdered. It’s now a museum and memorial. It’s a weird place for a day trip. I’d spent some time in Krakow, Poland, only a matter of miles from Auschwitz but never visited. I seen one concentration camp in my life in Cambodia and decided that was enough. I think it’s too voyeuristic a visit such a place. I don’t need to see such horrors to be reminded of them. Elizabeth and Ben had told me it was worth visiting and I respected there opinion about such things, so I justified it in my head and set off. I arrive to a sight on top of a hill. There are lots of people around putting up huge tents and thousands of plastic chairs are stacked up. I learn that the president Paul Kagame will be here in a couple of days for a memorial service marking the thirteen year anniversary of the genocide. The museum is actually shut and I’m told to come back on Monday. The man telling me this is friendly and chatty. I ask what he’s doing here but he doesn’t really answer me. I get the impression he’s important, he well dressed, fat and has an authority about him. He then asks for my identification card. I tell I have none and that my passport is in my hotel. His mood then changes at this and he starts having I go at me about not having ID. He keeps saying that I should have identification on me and I’m annoyed that he’s giving me a hard time. I understand his reasons, but it just seems so unreasonable to bring up such a ridiculous thing in a place like this. As I look around I see that people are just getting on with day to day life. Villages over look the sight and people work in their fields. Gangs of men push huge poles up to support the marques they’re erecting. The organisers walk around with radio’s shouting demands. If I didn’t know different there could be prepared for a pop concert not a memorial service. The whole thing is too surreal - its just normal life. I lady walks up and offers to show me round the class rooms. She doesn’t speak English so I have no commentary but am not complaining about this. She unlocks a door, and I take a step back. I knew what to expect but it still hits me hard. Inside the once classroom are about thirty bodies. They’ve been preserved with lime and actually look like they may be made from plaster - but they haven’t. Looking closer hair still exists on some and torn clothes on others. Machete wounds can be seen in some skulls. There are men and women, and plenty of very young children. They were exhumed from the mass grave where they were dumped a year after the genocide. The woman opens a few more classrooms but I call it a day and we walk back. I write in the visitor’s book, but what to put in the comments box? What is there to say about what I have just seen? I walk back through the car park, where people continue to cut the grass, lay out the plastic chairs and continue with their lives.

The next day I have the idea to head to Bujumbura. If I could get myself on a bus and within a few hours I’d be there. Elizabeth and Ben are there and I desperately need some company. Bujumbura has a beach and sunny whether and I’d rather recover lying on the beach than lying in my bed all day. I e-mail Elizabeth to say I’m thinking of coming down, but she e-mails back saying they’re left and that she’s back in Kigali and Ben’s in Tanzania. I’m disappointed I was really hoping for their company and support. She offers to come back to Butare to see me if I need help because I’m sick. She says she know how much it sucks being sick away from home on your own. I remember her telling me a story about her being in Hospital in China on her own and having to fill her own drip bag! Her offer of help is incredibly kind and I’m really touched by it. I hardly know the girl, only of ever spending one evening having dinner with her and the others, and few more hours here and there. She has a ticket back to Kampala which she says isn’t important if I need help. I really want to e-mail her and say yes yes, come back down here just so I have someone to talk to - I just really need someone to talk to. But I can’t. It’s not as if I’m incapable of doing stuff, its not like I need someone to fill my drip bag! I’m just incredible lonely and sick of being sick. I want to ask Elizabeth to come and see me but it’s too much to ask and having to ask for company makes me feel a bit pathetic about myself. I decline her offer and go back to staring at the walls.

I head out to dinner to the Chinese restaurant. It never ceases to amaze where you will find a Chinese restaurant. It’s a treat which I’m really looking forward to. A great meal can do wonders for the mind. I order my tofu and veggie sizzling hot plate with egg fried rice and sit back in anticipation. Everybody in the restaurant stares at me as the sizzling and steaming dish is put in front of me. It’s absolutely huge, about twice the size of a normal Chinese dish and there’s enough rice for a family. I start to tuck in but then realize I have no real appetite. I struggle to eat hardly any of it, order the bill and try to apologise to the waitress as she looks at my three quarter full plates. I stagger home I can feel myself getting lower and lower with each step. I lie in bed and start to worry about things. I’m getting upset as things are starting to eat away at me. I know this is not a good state to be in and I have to snap out of it. I fall asleep but wake up at 2am. Its 6am by the time I fall asleep again. I never ever have problems sleeping and attribute this to my delicate mental state. I wake up at ten and go and have breakfast. I realise I need to do something soon or my mental health will deteriorate even further. I decide on heading to Burundi. At least in Bujumbura I can lie on the beach till my health improves and I need a change of scene. I’d debated whether I would cycle through. The foreign commonwealth office advises against all but essential travel to Bujumbura and a complete no go in the countryside. The government have signed a peace agreement with the last rebel group in September ’06 a the twelve year old civil war looks like its come to a close. The road from Rwanda is only 100km’s to Bujumbura but I feel like it would be stupid to leave myself so venerable on a bike in the countryside. My sickness has now made my mind up, as I’m barely able to walk, I’ll catch the bus tomorrow.

I’m outside the bus office the following morning but am told the bus to Burundi is a mini bus and not big enough to take Harvey. I head to another bus company office. They say there buses are always big and I will be able to take Harvey. But when the bus arrives it’s full so I can’t board. SHIT SHIT SHIT. I really wanted to get out of here and just think another day will kill me. I walk over to the town’s only upmarket hotel. I ask to see a room with TV, thinking that a day in bed watching TV would be heaven. I check out the room but its $40 and its just way too expensive for me. I’m really pissed off. I just want to feel better, not be lonely and at least have TV to take my mind off it. I decide on a beer. Its only eleven thirty and I know I shouldn’t drink with my health but I don’t care.

The days getting worse I feel like I’m retracting into myself more and more. I’m very quite and shy with hotel staff and even walking into shops I find hard to say anything. It’s a sure sign that the loneliness is leading to depression. The day drags on and on. I’m worried there will be no buses all weekend as it’s a public holiday in memorial to the genocide - the anniversary of thirteen years to the week. I spend the day in an e-mail cafe mindlessly looking at crap and trying to escape my position in the world.

I head out to dinner that night. The restaurant is busy and I take the last free table. It’s Friday night and everyone looks happy. Large groups of people sit drinking and laughing with that relief that its Friday look on their faces. I’m madly jealous but far to shy to approach anyone. A middle aged mzungu couple walk in and are looking for a table. Mine is the only one with free space. The waiter sits them down at my table and I try to smile at them. I feel incredibly uncomfortable with them and don’t even say hi. I fear that if I tried to speak nothing would come from my mouth. I don’t know where to look and try at all costs to avoid eye contact. It’s awful. It’s as if I’m completely a where of every single movement in my body but not comfortable with any of them. I stare into the distance but then the lady turns to me.
“Do you speak French or English?”
“Err English”
“You are an Englishman”
“Err yes”
“We saw you this morning with a bicycle. Is that correct”
“Err yes, I was trying to leave”
We start to chat but I’m not doing a very good job of it. Her and her husband are being very friendly and asking lots of questions about my trip. I’ve heard them all I thousand times before but am trying to be polite and chatty, but I’m finding it hard. She asks me how long I’ve been in Butare
“Err well I’ve actually had malaria and been stuck in bed for ten days and have gone a bit mental, well totally mental actually, well really really totally totally mental”. And just as I say this it feels as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
“Oh, that is awful. There is nothing worse than being sick on your own, especially in foreign lands. The solitude is enough to kill you. That’s why in prisons they use solitary confinement as a harsh punishment”. Wow she has a point and totally understands my predicament. She offers me a drink which I accept and then she and her husband tell me their story.

Her and her husband and had lived in Butare from 85-91. Her husband taught at the university and they had enjoyed their time here very much. But she tells me it’s not the same country. All there friends are dead. They know no one from their time here in the eighties. She says the country is a different place. People are reserved now, shy and uncomfortable. She keeps talking about “Zee people in zee hills” Her German accent showing through. She’s telling me that now there maybe a middleclass but the countryside is getting poorer and poorer. I ask whether part of her attitude is because of nostalgia, it’s unimaginable to return to a country to find all your friends have been killed. She says that maybe a little bit, but is adamant it’s not the same, not the same people, not the same country.

Two young guys walk over and say hi to the Germans. They pull chairs up and start to chat. I’m still feeling shy but am feeling much much better. There’s another guy on the table next to us alone and he’s invited over and we all start to chat. I tell my malaria story and how I’ve totally lost it. I feel with almost every sentence a relief. It’s like I was trapped in my head for just too long, and now with each sentence a breath comes out which releases worry. I find out John and Anna are doctors just arrived fresh from finishing medicine in Nottingham and Tom another English backpacker. John and Anna say they'd ignore the negative results for malaria because often the parasites don’t show up in the blood tests even though you have the illness. They’re all good fun and we order more beers and chat and laugh and it’s really great to have decent company again. The night goes on till they kick us out at 1am and we arrange to meet again tomorrow.

The following day carries on the much same as the previous night. We meet at noon have lunch and wash it down with a few beers. I feel like a completely different person. I actually feel normal again. John, Anna and Tom are great company and I thank them for their friendship. I tell them how much I’d lost it and how grateful I am for the company. Tom says that he’d seen me in the e-mail café on Friday and thought I looked like a total weirdo. I think this is funny, but it also worries me how easy it is to get low and for it to take over your mind and even body language. We have a great day together and John, Anna and Tom are really fun. We all seem to share the same sense of humour and it’s great to have a laugh. There sense of honour is a quite sick, like my own, and I often find myself in tears of laugher. The day’s fun and the much needed. We spend Sunday wondering the quiet streets of Butare together and I’m happy to be leaving the next day full of life and full of enthusiasm.

I’m outside the bus office the following morning and have bought a ticket. But now there seems to be a problem with my bike. I’ve made a “friend” who is arguing with the bus guy about my bike. One minute it’s that the bus will be a mini bus and therefore is too small for my bike, but the next minute it’s that it’s against the law to take bikes on buses and then the next it’s no problem to take a bike but will cost me an extra five thousand francs. Its all to confusing and my friend seems to be going over and over it again and again with the bus guy. As their argument get more and more heated a crowd gathers and then they annoyed with this and start shouting at the crowd to disperse. The final word is no I can’t take my bike on the bus and I should go to another company down the road. I ask for a refund on my ticket then but am told this is also impossible. I don’t even argue as my friend has started it already for me. I get back two thousand of the two and a half thousand original ticket price. I’m annoyed but far too tired to complain about the rest. I head down to the other bus office. My friend comes with me. I don’t want him to as I know he’ll hassle me for money in the end. I also think it’s easily to deal with it myself than all the arguing. The bus comes in after a few minutes at the other bus office. I’m glad to see its half empty but when the side panels are opened to access the underneath storage, I see that’s its packed full of huge sacks of potatoes. There’s nowhere for Harvey. But my friend is helping out and getting porters to move to huge sacks so Harvey can fit in. After five minutes of pushing and shoving Harvey’s on the bus. My friend has been really helpful sorting it out. He tells me to give the porters five hundred between them and walks me to the door of the bus. I decide to give him some money for his help, and although he was incredibly pushy and definitely the wide boy of Butare he was genuinely friendly and really did help me out.
“So I guess you want money then hey” I ask.
“No no, keep your money, I just wanted to help”
I’m surprised. It’s really kind of him and he really has gone out of his way to help me.

The bus pulls off and within twenty minutes I’ll be at the Burundi border. I stare out of the window and think about my time in Rwanda - far too over shadowed by my malaria. I’d had a bit of a shitty time in Kisenyi, missing Jess too much and dealing with it in the worse possible way. But I’d enjoyed the cycling a lot. The days in the mountains had been fantastic. Steep climbs, exhilarating descents, friendly people and those always present thirty nine shades of green. I’m none the wiser to understanding the country but then again I think it’s probably un-understandable. I guess I can only wish the country the best for the future.

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