That Country

(top left) I like when restaurants don't aim too high

The bus ride to the border of Rwanda has been one of the highlights of my trip so far – barring minor incidents.  First came the screaming over a young woman and her baby who had either paid for a different seat or were being asked to move.  She didn’t budge until at least ten minutes after people started yelling at her, and we were only a half hour late from the station, which seemed to be the norm for a weekend morning.  Different buses played everything from French songs to other songs to news, and vendors sold passport covers, belts, samosas, and cakes.

My 6-hr view

My bus partner was a man whose conversation consisted entirely of ‘Eyyyyy’ in varying tones, which he also seemed to do on the phone and to other passengers, so that was fine.  He offered me a candy and a biscuit, I offered him some Reeses, and a few Eyyyyyyyyys later, we were fairly close friends (mostly due to his egregious manspreading).  I asked whether I should offer some to his wife/sister/female friend, but he thumped his heart twice and wagged his finger no, so that was that.  He also consistently peered over my shoulder at the pictures I was taking – at the risk of my life, I thought, because in India I would have been mugged many times over just for sitting in the back of a little bus travelling alone.

My 50kg of luggage

The beginning of the ride was fairly idyllic, aside from the fussing baby.  Most of the men were in suits regardless of the heat or where they had to go, and one such smartly-dressed young man asked, “How is Rwanda?  Better than America?"

Fo sho, Mister, fo sho.

A kind English-speaking man mournfully pronounced my camera incapable of zoom because I wasn’t adjusting the lens, but he becomes more important later.  I saw some monkeys, avoided going to the bathroom at stations because I would have had to pay to use a facility that I probably would not like using, and drifted in and out of a warm sleep haze to the sound of sermons and worship songs in Kinyarwanda and French, some pop music, babies screaming, and By the Rivers of Babylon. 

That's not a bad view.
- King Julien XIII

#cantbelieveIforgotmyphone#whataday
#travellingalone#lovemybaby
#didIpackhersnacks#forgotmybabycarrier
#whereishergiantdiaperbag
#oopsforgottopacktoysforbraindevelopment
#nomakeup#cantwaitforyoga

I have some pictures, but…  I hate pictures.  They’re so inadequate and portray none of the high I felt while on that bus.  Awe at the beauty of this creation that is so different from anywhere else I have visited, the people who thought (and continue to think) that some of them are owners of it and not others, the depth of my emotions for this landscape compared to God’s joy in creating and walking with His people in it… 

My time of trial began when I lost my bus partner – The Silent Giver of Sweets – and the English-speaking man leapt to take his seat.  He’d been very quiet thus far, so I was perhaps marginally friendlier than I should have been.  He revealed under his breath that he was a minority group from a neighbouring country, but everything was up from there – he was part of a big family, he’d lost his business with the ‘problem,’ he sold rocks (by which I thought he meant countertops, and he’d actually meant gems).  I was fine when he was talking about his family (a neighbour had poisoned his younger sister because they were jealous) and his work in Rwanda (unspecified, but with a brother and a sister – who were probably totally unrelated).  The conversation took a turn for the worse when I said I wasn’t married – there is no good way to answer that question because it is always unexpected and my brain frantically tries to signal my mouth which has already answered and likely only results in facial twitching reminiscent of a stroke.   

“Yes, I have a big family do you have children are you married?”

“No.  Ye-- No.  What?  Drat.”

“Indians are pretty.  You look Arabian.”

“Right.  Well.  Sorry?”

“Arabians are short –” with his hands indicating his hips and chuckling – “You have a nice shape.” 

“Jesus, take the wheel.”

“You know – Chinese, Indians, and Russians don’t marry Africans.”

“Ah, yes!  We’re racist.  I’m sorry.  If it helps, we tend to dislike Asians too.  Go White People!”

“What?”

“Uhm.  We… want to… make sure that couples have same… culture and language…?”

Laughing, “Your parents will choose for you?”

“Maybe, but right now, I love God first, so…”

“Yes, but after that.”

“Right.  Not sure about after I end my relationship with God.  Will keep you posted.”

Which prompted a whole rant on how love was all that mattered.  Which I agreed with on a general level.  But not right that minute. 

At one point I thought he was going to tuck some hair behind my ear and that was it – I refused to look at him after that.  Luckily, he both offered directions on how to get where I wanted and got off ahead of me - after ensuring that we had exchanged numbers and with a promise that I would find him on Facebook.  And then called a few times to make sure I’d followed his instructions.  I’d had a Rwandan phone at the time, and I buried it in abject fear upon meeting my co-facilitator, so I’m sure he must be feeling hurt by now, but sometimes we learn the hard way not to chat up foreign girls on the bus.