Monday, another day off thanks to the independence day on July 1st. Beatrice is planning to use this free day to visit a sick relative in the southern province of Rwanda and I can accompany her. Alex is coming with us as well and Bennet is driving. The road is good and we soon leave the town centre behind. Our surroundings change. The buildings are simpler and more spread apart. Roofs made of corrugated iron are more frequent and the people walking on the side of the streets are less well-dressed. I see more and more children in dusty clothes, motorbikes are scarce and replaced by bicycles, often loaded with bananas or grain sacks. Occasionally, I see a cow but more often goats tied to trees or led on the leash. While the other three are talking in Kinyarwanda, I watch the green hills. We cross a river and enter the southern province. Men and women work on their patches of land to our right and to our left. Again I must realise the great efficacy of the prohibition of plastic bags. The streets are all very clean. Women with babies tied on their back use umbrellas to protect their child from the sun. Some just cover its head with cloth so that nothing can be seen of the baby anymore.
Bennet slows down the car and parks at the side of the road. Something is wrong with the radiator. At once, some men from the bus and taxi stop nearby approach the car and help to fix the problem. I watch from a little distance. They are using glue and sawdust to close a crack in a cable. Alex assures me, that it is just a simple problem, but after continuing for some time with this improvised repair, Bennet stops again. It is better if we continue from here with a bus and don’t risk something worse happening when there is no village close by. So, while the driver returns to Kigali with the car, the three of us get into a bus. It is how I know it from Ghana. A minivan with every seat occupied, knees pressed into the seat in front. The driver’s mate signals the driver with a knock on the door when to stop and collects the coins. I continue watching the landscape until we arrive at a big bus station in a small town. From here, we have to take a taxi, but someone is going to meet us and show us the way. When he comes, Jean-Paul negotiates with a taxi driver to take us all the way to our destination and back again. We continue on the tarmac road for a while before taking a left turn. The road is worse now, the car makes me jump when it jolts across planks covering wholes in the road. The further we get, the more heads turn when the car approaches, following it with their eyes. I have no idea how long we are driving, but it is a long while. All the time, I look out of the window.
Eventually, we arrive at a market place, crowded with people. Out of all places, we alight here. I follow the others through the displayed goods, aware of the eyes that are now turned towards me and not the car. Jean-Paul leads us down a slope that would be difficult to pass when it is raining, towards a small house next to some banana trees. We enter.
The walls are painted in a bright green, some pale ribbons decorate the ceiling. Around a low table covered with white cloth are a couch and armchairs with worn-out cushions. A man is sitting on the couch, a crutch leaning against the wall next to him. Music is playing from a radio that I can’t see. Behind the couch are three sacks filled with grain. We are welcomed and take our seats around the table. I sit there quietly as the rest exchange news in Kinyarwanda. One after the other, young women come to greet us. We take each others arms in a half hug, murmuring ‘Muraho’. One gives me the more hearty cheek-to-cheek exchange and a quick kiss on the right cheek. I can hear the other girls laugh outside. An older woman, Jean-Paul’s mother, as I understand, serves food and drinks. Before we start, a prayer is spoken. I try not to eat faster or slower as the rest and not to finish my drink faster or slower than the rest.
The man in the corner is sick. He can’t move his right side properly and holds is right hand with the left. A small boy enters and sits down next to Jean-Paul’s mother. Other small kids peak through the door and laugh when they catch a glimpse of me. I smile at them, but stay quiet. At some point, I can’t avoid it and ask for the toilet. I shouldn’t have drunk that bottle of water but refusing it would have been impolite. The woman shows me the way and I follow her through the back part of the building, a tiny open court with more rooms, where I can see the girls in the shadows, smiling and waving. The toilet is a mud hut over a whole covered almost entirely by planks. The entrance is insufficiently shielded by a piece of cloth. I did not expect more than that.
When we leave, I take a picture from the top of the hill. Immediately, I am surrounded by children. As Alex asks me to, I also take a picture down the road. However, one of the guys that inevitable get also snapped approaches me, as I am still circled by children. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu fait?’ - ‘Oh, I was just taking a picture of those houses.’ - ‘I am understand you. The problem is me.’ He wants me to delete the picture and I do so. A hand pulls me out of the crowd and we get back into the car.
Same story as before. I watch the the scenery we pass and listen to the others’ voices. They are more quiet now. Outside as well, there are fewer people on the road and working on their fields. Instead, I see groups of people sitting together in the long shadows. It is just one road, no left turn, no right turn. I can see its course on the hills before us and behind us. It is getting dark, when we arrive at the bus station again and change from the taxi to one of the minivans going to Kigali. Alex wants to know how I found the place. ‘The difference to Kigali is really really big‘ I try to avoid a difficult answer. ‘They live a bad life. Look at the food they served.’ In fact, I quite liked the food. Maybe the problem is that there was no meat with it. Again in the car. Some passengers have a nap, it is quiet. I heard that we have one more hour to go, but I lost track of time. Before we reach Kigali, we have to change the car again because the main station has been relocated to a place outside the town centre. Alex leaves us here so it is just Beatrice and me, looking for the right car. I ask her, how one can tell which car goes where, but apparently you just have to know. However, there are enough drivers and mates around to ask if one is fluent in Kinyarwanda. Beatrice admits that it is not well organised, as we make our way through the crowd, hurrying to get seats in one of the buses that is immediately full and departs. It is almost full moon, I notice. From the station in the town centre, we have two motorbikes take us to the house. This time, the ride is no problem at all.
