My First Road Trip to Rwanda
When I was growing up, one of my army of uncles – Mr. Yusuf Nsubuga drove a trailer and mainly traversed three countries Kenya, Rwanda and Zaire. There was really nothing fascinating from his stories about Rwanda and Zaire. However, I always looked forward to his stories about Nairobi, Kisumu, Busia etc. Besides, he also came with sodas in a wooden crate from that side of the border. It therefore doesn’t strike me as odd that Rwanda or Kigali were never on my list of priority destinations even when I became an intrepid traveler in later years. At the end of the Rwandan Civil War of 1990-94 many of my classmates at the university clamored to travel to Rwanda, while it did not cross my mind to go even as close as Katuna. In addition, between 2005 and 2015, I traveled a number of times to Kigali on business trips usually paid for and I was always in a hurry to get out. Not even venturing beyond the hotel where the meeting was being held. However, around 2012 my perspective about Rwanda as a tourist destination started slowly being swayed. Stories of how Rwanda had changed for the better were increasingly filtering through the media. A few friends who had gone there purely as tourists were full of praises. At the end of 2015, I made a resolution that my next trip to Rwanda will be as a tourist and to make most of it I will travel by road. Still this did not happen for another three years, although in the intervening period I went back several times for business. It finally happened in 2018 and for nothing else but the love of running. At the beginning of that year, we agreed with a few friends that we would be participating in the Kigali International Peace Marathon that was due to take place in May. On Friday 18thMay 2018, we left Kampala for Kigali and this is my story of my first visit to Kigali as a tourist.
I woke at about 5.00 am and was ready to leave the house by 6 am. My gracious ride didn’t show up until 6.30 am – still grateful anyway that I did not have to pay for a cab at that hour. The streets of Kampala are relatively empty at that time and it does not take us long to cross from the northern Kampala suburb of Kiwatule to Old Kampala. We are there by 7.00 am and I am aware that departure is 7.30 am. I am happy with the driver cum lift provider until I learn that departure is actually 8 am. Somehow, my long time friend and permanent partner in crime on such jaunts – Charles –who had worked on the transport logistics thought we were all lousy timekeepers and in order to ensure that we keep time, he lied to us that the bus departs at 7.30 am. I start noticing that something may not be right when at 7.30 am some of the party had not shown up. These are the ones who had travelled to Kigali by bus before. I decide not to spoil my trip by making this a very big issue. I joined the conversations that were now in full gear.
There is something about runners that are about to travel for a run. Somehow they just can’t stop talking about their exploits in the previous runs. I don’t know if this is meant to intimidate or impress those seeing us for the first time. Surely you are going to spend the entire weekend together, running – this should be the last subject on your mind at this time. Anyway, I listen to stories of valiant runners and the races they have conquered. Everybody in the group is praising one especially younger runner I am seeing for the first time. Apparently he is the real deal and should win the half marathon easily. Having participated in runs almost on every continent in the last 15 years, I have learnt to take some of these stories with a pinch of salt. When he says that he recently completed a 10k in 37 minutes, my hopes aren’t as high as the others in the group but I spur him on anyway. If this is true, we have got an elite runner amidst us and he should be representing the country not amongst us - a bunch of 40+ runners whose only goal is to complete the run, never mind how long it takes.
Bus eventually left at 8.10 am but not after it was discovered that my ticket was supposed to travel the day before. In fairness and sticking with the principles of taking full responsibility, the organiser surrenders his ticket to me because the bus is full. He declares that he will travel later and adds that, this actually gives him time to sort issues that he had earlier left unattended to. I feel sorry for him but I take his seat in the comfort that it’s a win-win situation for both of us. In the meantime, one member of the group – my ever full of energy brother in law Apollo, infamous for turning up late has not arrived and does not show up until 8.05 am. My ticket issues were a blessing in disguise for him. This helped him catch up with us; otherwise he would have chased the bus on a Boda Boda. He seems unbothered that he was late - don’t sweat small stuff syndrome. I like the way he keeps it together despite being late.
On to the bus and on our way. My seat is number 16, next to a European young lady. She doesn’t seem so impressed that I said ‘Hi’. Either she muttered back a ‘Hi’ or ‘Fine’. Either way she had already been relegated to the ‘Never to bother with you again’ lot and she never heard from me again throughout the journey. Like it is always, bus is very chatty at the beginning of the journey, but by the time we do 50km everybody is quiet. Sleeping. I worry more about snorers in such situations. Unlike most, I always dose off the first 30 mins of bus/plane taking off and I am awake for the rest of the journey. Mr. Notorious latecomer announces that he is hungry when we have done about 80km but he is promptly reminded that the next stop is in Mbarara about 200km away from where we are. ‘That’s another 3 hours’, he grimaces. I had carried tea and cake because I expected to find myself in the situation that the later comer found himself in. Due to the late arrival of my ride, I eventually had tea and bread at home. So I was not badly off and decided to give him what I had packed. To my shock, all my cake is consumed.
It’s 10 am and everybody on the bus is quiet. I retire to my usual company. A game of Scrabble with some other bored fellow somewhere on this planet another important use of internet connectivity. Along the way, I note that the bus driver has to check into some kiosks manned by police. We have so far checked into 3 of them, apparently to check on their speed. No wonder our driver has been slower than the last time I took a bus across the border. He seems to drive more sanely. It is now about 1.30 pm and we have finally checked into Mbarara. We have stopped at a Service Station akin to a Motorway Services point in the UK. The bathrooms or places of convenience are as dirty as I can expect in our parts of the world. You see, I came to an unhealthy conclusion years back, that we Africans either just can’t keep toilets clean or don’t know how to do it. I have seen this in people’s private residences and my expectations of a public place are very low. What surprises me though at this stop is the lack of choice in the restaurant at Level 1 or the grocery store on the ground floor. I wondered if things would not be different if a Somali or an Indian ran this place.
Thirty minutes later we were on our way to the Katuna Border post and while on the bus one of the people travelling in our party declares that his contacts have just informed him via social media, that the road via Katuna cannot be used. As the most connected people on the bus and armed with the latest update we come to the conclusion at the end of a mini summit between all of us, that our driver should be informed. The lack of reaction or indifference by our driver told it all. Either our nominated representative was an over excited and over bearing traveler who deserved being ignored or the driver already knew of the situation and had a plan B. Either way, I slumped in my seat and decided to enjoy the journey.
At about 4.30 pm, we were at Katuna Boarder. Clearance through the Ugandan side was swift but that was not my interest anyway. That said, I still wonder why I had to be scanned all ten (10) fingers. I am usually done with just the thumb and index finger on the just one hand. By 5.00 pm, I had arrived at the Rwandan side of the boarder and I was ready to listen to the immigration officer as he details out my itinerary. I have heard so many stories about Rwanda but the one I was interested in here is the myth that ‘by the time you present yourself to the immigration officer at the Boarder post in Katuna, he already knows your itinerary, what you are going to do and how long you are staying’. At the end of my interaction with the Passport Stamper, it was clear that he did not know much about my intentions of visiting Rwanda. His biggest concern seemed to be that a rather rotund man like me claimed that I was entering Rwanda to do the Kigali Marathon.
Next was checking our luggage by presumably security (they were not in uniform and wore no identification tags). Every passenger was asked to pick up their luggage and bring it to the checking table. The lady in front of me complained about the intrusiveness and I agreed. Her toilet bag was emptied of her underwear and sanitary pads (by a man!!!) – all in the name of checking. When she complained, she was asked if knickers are not clothes. She later told me that she chose not to take the matter further because she had been warned that Rwandan security personnel do not entertain dissent of any kind. As we mused about that security check we wondered why a country that is so much reputed for security cannot buy handheld scanners and baggage scanners instead of choosing to grope people and exposing what many would consider private apparel.
Enter 5.30 pm and we are on the bus again. The driver easily and seamlessly switches to the right hand side. I have never understood all these countries that drive on the wrong side of the road. For all their whining and empire(ish) attitude, the British seem to be right on this one – we should all drive on the left of the road. Apart from driving on the ‘wrong side’ of the road, I found the road between Katuna and Kigali nightmarish. It is full of bends and seemed narrower than the Ugandan highways. A few minutes before 7 pm we were in Kigali downtown. I have come to the conclusion that all buses arriving in East African cities are barred from the ‘poshest’ ends of the cities. It is like we bus users aren’t allowed to disembark in Nakasero, Kololo (Kampala), Upper Hill, Lavington (Nairobi), Nyarutarama, Kiyovu (Kigali) – but instead in places that will somehow let us see the hardest workers and lowest earners of the city.
The taxi drivers in Kigali accost us as soon as we disembark but they are more mannered in touting their business and we don’t feel stressed or threatened. In fact we have time to crack a joke with one or two of them before we eventually choose the guy who could easily deliver all six of us with our luggage to our destination. During the ride we have small talk and our driver catches wind of the fact that we have come down to Kigali to participate in the weekend’s Kigali Marathon – it was my first time but I was later to find out that every single person involved in the service industry in Kigali –understands and mildly speaks Luganda. So be careful what you say when you talk about the good Rwandan citizens in what you think is a foreign language to them. Within the first 5 minutes of our ride, we all concurred with our cab driver that our choice of hotel being 7km away from Amahoro Stadium where the run was supposed to start was as stupid as unusual. This doesn’t happen often in a foreign city but I immediately agree with our driver that he could take us to a hotel closer to the Stadium. I embarked on the task of convincing some in our party who still had no faith in Papi. After about 20 minutes we pulled over in front of the Mirror Hotel and yes we could see the Stadium from where we were – so Papi was right. At about 8.30 pm, we had already checked and ready to find something to eat. Did I mention that at the time, we had sacked the accommodation coordinator – Apollo and that I had become the self appointed Chief de Mission?
Next was to confirm as a fact or myth – that Kigali was the safest city in the region. We stormed out of the hotel at exactly 9.00 pm to go and find dinner. Come Again Restaurant and Bar about 700m down the road was recommended and it did not disappoint. Like we did on our way out, we walked back on our way in at about 10.30 pm. Although one of us claimed that no one would dare attack 6 guys, majority of them weighing anything to the north of 80kg, it felt very safe, convenient and appealing. The entire street was well lit, quite unfamiliar to me as a Kampala resident.
Saturday morning and the breakfast was the best I have ever had for the amount of money, I was paying for bed and breakfast. The Mirror hotel may have had a few failings here and there, but the breakfast wipes away any displeasure I may have had.
There was a variety of everything, fruits, cereals, confectionaries etc and the real African tea like we Africans know and do it. Which brings me to this question, isn’t it criminal that hotels in Uganda serve only watermelon and the occasional pineapple as fruits for breakfast. Listen to this, at The Mirror hotel we had Mangoes, Small Bananas, Bogoya,Passion Fruits, Pineapple, Water Melon, Apples, Grapes, Pawpaw, Sugarcanes and something I only know locally as ‘ebinyanya’.
Being Saturday - the day before the run, we choose to do what we always do, tour the city. We did this both by car and on foot. By consensus we all now agree that Papi is a decent cab driver and should earn all our money for motorable movements. He was called and he promptly arrived at the front of the hotel. He took us to a number of places – though to be sincere most of them like the State House – we just passed and saw from a safe distance. On the whole, it is a lovely city. I am told Rwanda is known as the land of thousand hills. I did not count them but looks like the city alone is made of a thousand hills. I love green spaces and these are my biggest attractions of any city. When I saw one by a huge round about, I thanked God for answering my prayers. I asked Papi if we could stop by and he answered in the affirmative, but he hastened to add, ‘we will have to ask for permission from those guards to enter it’. The guards were across the road at one of what I was told is an important government building and I thought they would have no reason to say no. How wrong I was. We were not only told that we were not allowed to enter but we were asked to leave immediately. One wonders why a city would keep such nice beautiful, clean, green, well-manicured spaces only to bar people from accessing them. In other cities, this would be a public space for residents and visitors to enjoy. In Kigali it is just a large, tempting, restricted green opening that is maintained to look beautiful and inviting without being used or accessed. What a disappointment.
Later in the evening we sampled Kigali by the night. We visited a new place for dinner and still found that most of the waiters and waitresses spoke Luganda. Pleasant as it was, we were constantly reminded by one of us to avoid any conversations to do with politics. Apparently many of these good smiling people are actually spies. I had no proof of that, but I wasn’t going to try and put that supposition to a test just to prove if it was a myth or fact. Again the service was above par and we enjoyed our ugaliand pork before we later retired to bed.
The following morning, we all got up early anxious and excited like, it usually is on a marathon morning. At breakfast, we saw that almost all other residents were also here for the marathon, although most were from Tanzania. The marathon itself was not as grueling as I expected it. It is possible that earlier runners of this event had over rated it or that I was just well prepared. Our youngest runner in the group did well – better than all of us – but not as well as he was touted to be.
Sunday afternoon was generally a lazy time at the Hotel, not much done. The following morning we left for Kampala and yes Kigali was impressive but I still haven’t got enough of it. I will be back as a tourist, when the time allows and may be for a longer period.
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