A Real Trip - Part II

Note:  Still more a summary (honestly) of events rather than an entertaining flow.  

Upon arriving in Kigali, I learned the horrifying news of the kidnapping of a UN worker in the DRC and found it hard to settle down for thoughts of what this much-admired man and his friends might be going through.

I finally managed to pass out for a few hours on 'Big Bertha' – a tiny air mattress that I eventually just rolled off because it was easier – at our Area Directors' home.  After a dry breakfast and a pleasant conversation during which I prayed that I would not follow in my mother's footsteps after nearly thirty years of devoutly avoiding nausea, I was driven in style to the bus station, where I pretended I could take care of myself.

Very kind people (who, incidentally, wanted money), handled my luggage and got me a ticket, and it was only once I was waiting for the bus that I decided to look at the departure time:  10am.

I stared at this information numbly.  I'd hoped to leave the city by 8am to arrive at our retreat location by late afternoon - otherwise the police would stop me and take all my conditioner and earrings and it would be terrible (in my defense, I'd only been offered vague warnings and my sleep-deprived brain could not come up with a worse fate).  This bus would set me two hours behind, and thus destroy all the plans that a kind colleague had carefully laid out via email.  I folded up my ticket and put it away – I was still nauseated and couldn't contemplate any other course of action.

So I waited through the general rush at the bus station, inwardly sighed at the myriad yelling over seats, and watched as half the bus was loaded with huge bags of some unidentified powder (cement, I guessed).  I was asked by a very plump, kindly woman whether I'd take a taxi with her from the Rwanda/Burundi border to Bujumbura, and I marvelled at God's mercy as I'd been advised to make friend with just this sort of person (my ability to play nice is hit or miss, so I hadn't been counting on taking this route).  The trouble began at the border (after a brief stop where goat skewers, milk, cheese, peanuts, and basically anything edible was pushed through the windows).  At the immigration office, I was a little behind the Maman who'd offered to share her taxi with me (though she'd tried to force me to butt ahead of the line), but she'd assured me again that she'd be waiting on the other side.

And then we never saw each other again.

“C'est vierge,” repeated an unimpressed Burundian official of a document that allowed me to travel between countries in the Great Lakes Region.

I felt like shaking him by the ears.  So?!  Are we so intent on keeping out all things virgin?!  HMM?!

Here's the problem:  I had an exit stamp to leave the Congo in my passport.  I had an entry and exit stamp from Rwanda to India in my passport.  I did not think to use my travel document because it was only for travel between the countries, not outside of them.  Thus, when I tried to enter Burundi on the 'virgin' travel document, I was attempting to divide by zero – either I had to have a Burundian visa in my passport to use the exit stamp from the Congo OR I had to have an exit stamp from the Congo on my travel document.  OR, the official finally muttered, I could go back to Rwanda and see if they would agree to stamp an exit on my travel document.

As only the last was actually feasible, I was determined to try - the other alternative being crying until Carrottop and Captain came to pick me up.  But the thought of again traversing the no-man's land of pushy taxi drivers, begging children, and gun-toting soldiers with my much-abused luggage was less than appealing.  Both bags had been soaked in the driving rain from Kigali to the border, and carrying my backpack on one shoulder felt like supporting an incontinent whale.  I'd begged family and friends not to give me gifts so that I could easily traverse this leg of my journey, but they'd just force-fed me to shut me up and filled my bags with the spicy pickles and cheap jewellery that I so covet.

When I asked if I could leave some of this luggage at the office while I stepped back into Rwanda, the response was negative - thus bystanders watched in amusement as I carried at least 40kgs on my person while huffing waves of hair off my face and zigzagging to avoid coolies on this walk of shame.  Adding to this burden was the social anxiety of all shy people – unable to reach the Maman from the bus (on the other side of the border) to tell her to go on without me, I hoped she wouldn't wait long (the fine print being that God would have to send another in her place).  I then left my bags with friendly Rwandan soldiers (who spoke Swahili and accepted my running joke of being Congolese) on their side of the border, explained my situation and received the requisite stamp in an instant, and weaved my way back with all the grace of an asthmatic hippo.  I finally made it past the reluctant Burundian official, attempted to have my bags searched as per protocol (the officer just looked at the bags I'd just painstakingly hoisted, unlocked, and opened for him, sighed, “Oh, muzungu,” and lazily waved his hand to indicate that he'd inspected enough), and had just accepted the fact that my Maman had left me all alone – when a nice taxi driver grabbed my bags, put them in a car with a nice young guy and two nice young women, and we drove off.

--Careened – I mean careened off, as our driver danced, sang, and played air drums and chicken with oncoming traffic.  It was generally a good time because I like speed, curves, and music, but I pragmatically prayed for a quick death in case of an accident rather than, say, life as a motivational speaker (because I'd make very little money and then I'd die anyway).

We easily made it right to the door of the retreat centre (thanks to one of my fellow passengers), I met up with my team after three months, and we carried on with business as usual.  On the most eventful night, I unknowingly gatecrashed Cinderella's friend's birthday party (involving delicious cake and pouring water over the birthday girl just so she could try on another outfit – really) where I was enthusiastically welcomed by a young man whom I would swear had more arms than God ordained.  The night finally ended when we arrived at the centre through a storm and soaked to the bone.

After a few days of reflection and learning with Carrottop and Captain, we separated briefly to continue our retreat in the Congo as Grandpa and Timbit had not received their visas to join us in Bujumbura.  I stuck with Captain so that he could weave his magical spell of diplomacy if I should have problems at the borders.  

Of course, there were none.  

So the trip involved a land cruiser that shuddered and hiccoughed with every gear change (kudos to Captain for getting us through the winding escarpments without incident) and consistent jokes that my travel documents had finally been 'deflowered' (young men are simply hilarious - on an unrelated note, I wonder which convents are currently accepting applications).

At our hotel (near our old apartment), I'd been expecting to share a room with the sweet Cinderella as usual, but was pleasantly shocked.

“Do we have our own rooms?!” I asked the bellboy - before realising that he probably hadn't organized our sleeping arrangements.  He presented me with a beatific smile and answered so proudly that I found myself fervently thanking him anyway.

And this is how I ended up back in the DRC, ready for another year of changes, challenges, and chances.