There comes a time in every long backpacking trip that you hit your first big low. Sometimes followed by a high…and then another low. While it is not my nature to focus on the negative, I think this particular segment of my trip has burned a memory deep in my mind. One in which I will carry, both the good and the bad.
My first impression of the city of Kigali was shocking. The government and external companies have invested so much money into the growth of this community, and it really shows through the immaculately paved streets. No pot holes, greener than any place I’ve seen, and thanks to the locals who volunteer once a month, no trash anywhere. The people are well educated, speaking both their native tongue of Rwandan and broken English as well. Not what I expected for East Africa, or any part of the world.
While Kigali tourism is known for their silverback gorilla trekking, I decided to do a self-guided bike tour along the popular Lake Kivu Congo Nile Trail. This five day ride takes you across many small african villages. While I wanted to capture so many photos of these places, I sensed it would be incredibly invasive.
Unfortunately Rwanda also holds a dark history of genocide from 1994. Originally colonized in 1899 by Germany, it wasn’t until 1919 that Belgium indirectly ruled under the League of Nations. They slowly planted the seed of oppression and tension by favoring the smaller Tutsis tribe because they resembled Europeans more than the Hutu majority tribe. This led to an indescribable machete war amongst the tribes.
I didn’t really know much about this history leading up to the trip, simply that it happened recently and wiped out almost a million Tutsi people. I didn’t realize the sad history of the town I was about to enter; all the memorial sites scattered across this region, and how hard it must be for the locals to trust their own neighbors again, let alone foreigners.
I declined all private taxis and took the four hour local bus from Kigali to Kibuye, where I would start north of Karongi, making my way south over miles of scenic hills and huts. When given the chance, I always want to experience life as a local, not a privileged tourist who can pay for an experience. This habit will later come back to bite me.
The first bus left at 4am and I took a motorbike taxi to the bus stop. The night sky was well lit with twinkling porch lights across the hills; everything was magical until it wasn’t. The air became stiff as our motorbike approached a crowd of motorcyclists gathers around a bent one on the ground. It was lying sideways with glass shattered in every direction. Two young men were lying motionless sprawled across the cold street. Their helmets flung in opposite directions and surrounded by many others, who simply couldn’t help. I felt immense pain for their families and quickly pushed down all memories of death as we parked inside the bus lot next to them.
The “express” bus made many stops along the way and I got to see so many small towns along the scenic ride into the tea-filled mountains. I shook myself for not getting a SIM card because my offline google maps stopped working in the moment I needed it most. I wasn’t sure where my stop was, and the towns didn’t display any signage. I asked the man to the right of me and when I started to accept that nobody spoke English or wanted to talk to me, the kind younger man to the left of me provided a little hope. He asked which town I was going to and confirmed he so happened to be taking a day trip to the same town. With an assortment of people getting on and off during those four hours, I knew it was fate and did not take this for granted.
I shook off the close call and paid a local motorbike to take me to a local resort where I organized a mountain bike day rental. I ordered coffee and took a break to realign myself. The bike wasn’t amazing by any means, however it switched gears without too much effort and the brakes appeared to work. It was enough for me. That was until the tour guide who wasn’t going to guide me, Dieus, brought my helmet. I sat slack-jawed as I watched him explain that while the left strap is completely broken I just need to fasten the back headpiece and it will work just fine. Still experiencing so much trauma from the mountain bike concussion this past year I felt the anxiety, fear, panic and annoyance bubble up. “Absolutely not safe. Find me another helmet. Or in 30minutes I will rent somewhere else.” Ignoring my request, he attempted multiple times to place it on my head to show me. I couldn’t tell whether I wanted to punch him or cry in frustration and self pity. I quickly stepped away and sat on the curb to stare out blankly toward the lake that I so badly needed to ride around.
He may not have spoken English but he could read my body language and called his tour guide friend, who delivered another helmet in 5 minutes. I may have started my trip later than hoped, but was relieved to depart on my conditions. After all I was taking this entire trip alone because he would only go out for a larger group. I got into the saddle and navigated the minimal instructions he gave me to get on the trail, where I would bike two segments (40miles) of the Congo Nile Trail with an old Trek mountain bike. I would also later pray for zero bike failures because I was alone, without tools, and caught in some bad weather.
The trail itself was very easy to navigate. Once I got out of town it was just one long winding roller coaster of intense elevation of almost 6,000 feet across the timespan of 4.5 hours. I was incredibly grateful for the multiple speeds because I could not have done this so effectively on a single speed bike.
I spent hours going up and down beautiful villages. My checks were hurting from all the smiling and waving to people along the route. At one point a young male and his friend tried to race me uphill but I sped ahead of them. I made my gear change known so they could understand how much of an advantage I had on them. Surely other tourists rode this route, but it was clear they didn’t see many by bicycle. The old Dutch man who originally gave me the idea told me he did it with a group of motorists.
The day passed quickly and I finally made it to my end destination where I was planning to see the Mugonero market then head back. The mood quickly changed as I glided down the hill and over the bridge. Gray clouds pushed out the cheerful sun, and mass groups of people appeared out of nowhere. With each one I passed, a hallow stare acknowledged I was at the entrance to their market. I walked through the small village, bike in hand, while crowds of people halted what they were doing. The energy from the previous village left me smiling, while entering here was some dark force. I could only smile so much until the hateful eyes chipped away at my spirit. I could feel the burning with every stare that I was not welcomed. During the ride I saw multiple signs dedicated to the intense memorial sites that were scattered across this lake and connected this must have been a large one.
I grew concerned. Not necessarily out of fear, because I felt in my heart these people were kind and would not hurt me. However I felt so uncomfortably out of place. I was after all, the only white person they have probably seen for days. Weeks. Maybe months. I had no business being here, walking through their home. A loud speaker was blaring the same sentence repeatedly and I wondered what propaganda it was saying. I crossed a bridge that reeked of death and only hoped it was that of an animal.
I was crawling in my skin. In fact I felt so much shame that I wanted to rip my skin off. My gut told me to stop and not go any further. I found a building wall, where I leaned against, hoping to disappear into the rock surface, to reassess the situation. The mean eyes continued as I coiled into a small little ball. Instead of aimlessly looking around in worry, I decided to occupy myself with purpose. I certainly didn’t want them to feel like I was staring back at them in amusement.
So I brought out the only thing in my small bag that made sense. An apple. I didn’t realize how bad it would look. I’m sitting here eating food in an impoverished village. One young man walks past me and says “hungry” and rubs his stomach. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or making fun of the westerner. There were hundreds of banana, coffee and tea farms along the route and I assumed fruit grew everywhere here. I looked down at the apple and pondered if I should offer him the rest. No, it would be rude to offer him my leftovers, right? I can’t believe that months ago I had this dream of helping local villages; of bringing in supplies for the youth, a fable notion of making this world feel like a better place. What did I honestly think I could do to positively impact this community? The damage was started by settlers and it’s going to take years to rebuild.
I was so out of my element. I quickly picked up my bike and casually, yet swiftly, walked out of there. Sunglasses off, with every morsel of respect I could give this community, I make the trek back to the entrance. I owed at least this to them and would not coward in embarrassment. It was the worst walk of shame of my life.
Once I made out from the dirt path into the dusty road, my lungs replaced the hostility with fresh air. I cannot imagine what they went through in regards to oppression if that was just a taste. All I knew was that I had no business trying to see into their lives. Once a safe distance away from the people, past the metal arch district sign, the entire day crashed over me. All these new emotions of rejection bubbled up many old repressed ones. All the years of self-destruction, but this was the straw that broke the camels back. I burst into tears. I feel so dirty and desperately wanted to go back to Kigali where they at least pretended to accept me.
Around this moment the sky went significantly dark and thunder cracked. I pulled out my useless windbreaker as large rain drops speared my skin. I didn’t care that I was drenched and the pain was a welcoming distraction that made me feel cleansed. I biked through the intense African rain for almost an hour. The tires sprayed dirt from the road into my eyes until they burned my vision. I began to question if I’d actually make it back to the bus stop. But I couldn’t lose hope because I had nothing else.
The streets emptied as locals took shelter while the red clay rivers flooded around. At one point I approached an older woman in the distance. The only person in the rain with me, yet her clothes didn’t look wet at all, as if some mystical voodoo protected her. As we crossed paths she gave me a sneaky smile as if to reassure me this element is nothing, and we got this. I got this. I pedaled a little harder with encouragement. I didn’t want to overthink if she was a figment of my imagination. After some more time I passed a school. Through the open window kids were cheering me on, waving their hands. I felt a spark of life come back to my thighs, and pushed onward up the hill.
The rain eventually cleared and before I knew it, I’m was 10 miles away from my final destination. The sun finally returned, along with it my confidence and some heat toward my soaked clothing. School must have gotten out for the day because suddenly there were small groups of kids everywhere, like little rainbows about a half mile apart. I was filled with love for all the adorable three foot tall boys in beige and blue uniforms. One by one, the children cried “HI!!” – I gleefully responded back and this apparently was approval for them to join me. I felt like Forest Gump, but with a school of at least ten fast little African children following me.
My heart was delighted by their innocence. Then it quickly was discouraged as they were saying “money, money!” – I assumed that many previous foreigners have enabled them into learning this. I got off my bike to walk alongside them – hoping to give them my time, not money. They were catching their breath as I rode off again hoping they would rest. They trickled off one by one. I must have been riding for at least 15-20 minutes when I noticed one of the little boys was still behind me!! How determined this lil guy was. I was honored to be worthy of this long chase, when so many adult males could not do the same. I didn’t have a snack so I reluctantly gave way to the reward of money. Now I see how it happened. I made sure no other children were around when I placed my pointer finger over my lips in a “shhh” motion. I handed the child a small 100franc coin hoping to reward him, as well as encourage him to stop following now because he was coughing so much. Nope. He kept running behind me and when we encountered more kids along the way the chase began all over again. I had to giggle as I hoped he didn’t tell them to follow the woman made of coins.
It was this light-hearted moment that I needed to boost my spirits. I finally caught my next downhill and was able to bike faster than the kids to finally say goodbye. I made it back to Kibuye in great timing and attempted to dry out my shoes over an early hot dinner. I purchased two meals and handed the other to a random local at the bus stop. It may have been getting dark but I was grateful I had a bus ticket back to Kigali, as these buses quickly fill up.
The bus ride back had its own ironic struggles. More stares, more puzzled locals, broken pop out seats that made it impossible to sit upright during the four hour ride. A young woman even handed me her son while she jumped off at the first rest stop. The baby quickly awoke in fear that I was definitely not his mom, and I was out of my element again. Then a local man asked me for the millionth time where my husband or boyfriend was, why was I traveling alone, and that he will be my boyfriend. Despite how sick of this line I am, I have given up telling people the lie that I have someone back home. Over a decade of doing this and I never do.
Upon handing the baby back to his mother I lost my phone charger that I had tied to my small bag. I didn’t panic much, despite that being the only lifeline to me and a functional trip. I had a strong feeling it fell out in the seat while waiting for the people to get back on the bus. I had a stronger feeling the one woman with conniving eyes took it for ransom for the end of the trip. My new boyfriend Rukundo asked everyone to look for me and the search party was endearing. All the while she didn’t budge which validated my suspicions that she would return it to me at the last stop asking for money. This indeed happened hours later when she strategically, yet coincidentally found it below her seat. I mirrored her act and overly exaggerated how happy I was she found it. Luckily I always travel with small bills and smiled with gratitude as I handed her a 2,000 note. That note would get me a motor ride for 45min or 4 apples…it’s complex and I don’t get this rational. Anyways, she was probably expecting a much larger note as we stared at each other, both knowing she could not barter for more in front of everyone.
My new boyfriend insisted on escorting me home and I sternly said “no, ooo-rah-coozie” as I quickly jumped on the motorbike taxi. It was almost midnight when I made it home into my queen bed and crawled under the sheets. This would be the deepest sleep of my trip and somehow allow me to wake in the morning not with sores, but rather a very healed neck. Turns out those janky bus seats reversed some pain in my neck muscles. Rwanda has been a trek, and certainly left a profound impact on soul. Yet this place is so tame compared to my next destination and I’m a little weary of what’s to come.
