On Sunday, we have to check-out at 9 pm. Tired as we are, we don’t get up much earlier than that and take our breakfast afterwards. This morning we finally meet the priest, a comfortable-looking man how greets us as we are sitting at the breakfast table. They had a special course at university the day before and that is why he didn’t return until late.
I have pancakes filled with banana for breakfast. Four halves, nicely arranged on my plate. Beatrice wants to taste and takes one of the halves, but I get some of their fruits and bread in return.
Beatrice decides to arrange a taxi for us, that can take us to different places in the area, to avoid problems of transport. At first, we buy return tickets at the station in town. From there, we continue to the border posts. Approaching a barrier blocking the tarmac road, I assume that this is the only indication that we are leaving Rwanda, but I am wrong. We can pass the barrier and enter the actual border zone, with a big parking place for trucks and a building for immigration. A second barrier blocks the actual entrance to Congo. Just on the other side, stretching out behind the line, is Goma, corrugated iron roofs as far as I can see, the silver sheets closely packed one next to the other. Gysenyi in Rwanda on this side is much less dense. The smaller border post I have seen already, but we pass there nevertheless. This is really just one barrier with two soldiers posted on each side. The immigration process is done by one officer, not even in a uniform, standing between two small huts, who looks at the passports of those queuing to enter Rwanda.
We leave the border and continue to Serena hotel. I have seen it from outside, but Beatrice wants to go inside. It is the most expensive hotel here. We pass the late breakfast tables of guests, staffed with croissants and other fine food. There is a pool and of course direct access to the beach. While Beatrice and Emmanuel take their Rwandan pictures, I stand there and watch the people. It is chilly. No sun lights up the day.
From here we drive along the coast, leave the town Gysenyi behind and pass through the Bralirwa area. That is the local brewery, those who produce Primus beer, and their area is so big that the public road goes right through it. Advertisements and the logo are visible and the smell is unmistakable. Much nicer is Kigufi, further down the lake’s shore. It is a place of Catholics, where people can come to rest and pray, a peaceful garden, directly on the lake, inviting to stay and not do anything at all. We stay here for some time, taking pictures of course, but we are a bit under pressure. The bus we bought tickets for returns to Kigali at 3.30 pm and we need to have lunch before that which usually takes quite some time. I suggest going to a place where we went with Richard as well. Not knowing the name, I just show the picture to the driver and he recognises the place, La Palm. As I remembered, it is on the way from here back to Gysenyi. However, we are not going to eat there. We just stop there to have a look. It is as nice as I remember, but as it is weekend, there are more people than last time. I am a bit tense now, because time is running. It drives me crazy how Emmanuel and Beatrice take more and more of these Rwandan pictures. I don’t understand what they like about them. They are boring and all look the same. Nothing is happening in these pictures. I stopped smiling at pictures myself and imitate their serious faces.
Before the driver leaves us to go to another job, he drops us at Tam Tam again, where we take our lunch. Although the menu says otherwise, I can’t get plantain and order chips with these small fish instead. The waiter needs some time until he understands our order and it takes too long for the food to come. I am getting really impatient. The fish is not totally covered with bread crumbs this time and for the first time I see that it really is the whole fish. Only the heads have been cut. This time, because I can see it and it is tickling the throat a bit, I also cut the tail fin.
After all, we are still on time and walk back to the hotel where we left our bags. From there, we want to take motorbikes to the bus station. Instead of walking to a more busy road, where many motorbikes pass, however, Beatrice and Emmanuel want to wait in front of the hotel. I am too tense to agree with that and eventually, we start walking. That way, we indeed quickly find motorbikes to take us to the bus station. Not all three at once, but I suggest that we can go one by one instead of waiting to find three drivers at the same time. Emmanuel leaves first after a moment of reluctance, then Beatrice and I follow together. We are on time, but the bus is already there and we enter to get good seats. A guy in a white shirt and black trousers sits down next to me. If there are any doubts about his face, because obviously it was quite dark the night before, I do recognise his scent. ‘Do you remember me?’ - ‘Yes, I do.’ - ‘Lisa, right?’ I don’t remember his name because I didn’t even catch it when he had told me, but I have decided to call him Joe. What strange coincidence is that? It is quite a change, but it is him. Joe opens a MacBook Pro. The screen is cracked, but his Nokia Smartphone is still whole. He works only for some minutes and then I open the conversation. ‘So what do you do in real life, apart from dancing?’ I understand something about administration. He actually lives in Kigali, but came to Gysenyi for vacation, just like us. The way he talks sounds educated to me. He says he speaks five languages and counts English, Kinyarwanda, French, Swahili (he went to primary school in Kenya) and what they speak in the DRC. I believe him. He likes dancing. Obviously, I already know that. Wherever he goes for holidays, he wants to dance, he says. He tells me about a trip to Dubai, where the nightclub was not a nightclub at all and those who danced were foreigners. All in all, he makes an impression of being a good guy. I tell him that I am leaving soon and he suggests going out on Friday to dance in Kigali, but I was told that we are having visitors on Friday, so it is not possible. A pity. The music in the car relaxes me. Religious songs are being played, a women’s choir is singing. Some of the female passengers sing along with soft voices. I watch the landscape pass as the sun slowly sets.
When we arrive at Nyabugogo station after three hours, we have to find a bus to Kacyirru again. I am disheartened when I see a very long queue and hear that they all want to go the same way as we do. When we have just decided to take a taxi instead, a voice next to us shouts ‘Kacyirru’. I follow Beatrice as we hurriedly climb into the bus. Somehow, we have been lucky regarding transport this whole weekend. Soon we arrive at SNV office, get into Beatrice’s own car and drive home.
